


The Wolf and the Dragon

by ValeriyaQuetzalis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, F/F, POV Lesbian Character, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rhaegar and his children live, Rhaella lives, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 63,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValeriyaQuetzalis/pseuds/ValeriyaQuetzalis
Summary: Robert's Rebellion ended with the winning side on the Targaryens. Now the houses are silently divided, with House Stark and House Targaryen being the most tense. However, after being shown that tensions between a great house and the crown are of no good, the Dragons and the Wolves have decided to make peace with each other. In this stressful diplomatic event, two highborn girls meet each other and a bond starts to grow.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 109
Kudos: 259





	1. Daenerys | The Cook's Daughter

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody, welcome to my first english fanfiction! Aside from my love for Daensa, this is also written as kind of writing literature in english practice. I would love if you'd give me heads up for any continuity error, grammar mistakes, or incorrect use of words. I also wanted to write a fluffy Daenerys/Sansa love story, since the show hates women supporting and loving each other. Thank you, and I hope you like this as much as I enjoy writing it.

**I**  
Daenerys  
The Cook's Daughter

There was no mornings Daenerys liked. She never had been an early riser, and she much preferred the afternoons, just before the twilight. She liked how red and purple mixed, making her feel like she was in a dream. Sometimes, when no one was looking, she would run to the gardens and get lost in the mazes. When she made sure no sounds could be heard and no eyes could see, she would pretend she was a dragon, soaring through the lavender sky, and visiting places she would never imagine stepping in. Sometimes it was the desert, with pyramids and children like her bathing in the oasis; sometimes it was the steppe, or the faraway mountains of Essos. But in special afternoons, when she felt more dreamy than usual, she would think of snowflakes, and the cold winds gently caressing her face. She would fly up to The Wall, and in the night stop at Winterfell to feast with the enigmatic Lords and Ladies of the North. She’d imagine herself wearing a thick fur dress and the Winter Crown, running with the direwolves in the woods, and sleeping under the aurora over the cold hills. Sometimes she would ask her brother Aemon how it felt, but he gave no answer. He would scold and revert to his melancholic self, leaving Daenerys anxious and frustrated.

“You have been to the North, surely you have many stories of it.”

“I do, but nothing is interesting enough. It’s cold and ugly, that’s all you may know.” Aemon was the son of the late Lady Lyanna Stark and Daenerys’s brother, Rhaegar Targaryen. Because of the nature of his birth, he wasn’t well accepted in King’s Landing court, and he would say that the Northmen approached him with suspicion. Daenerys did not understand—or approved—of why they did so. _He surely looks a lot more like a Stark, and not Rhaegar_ , she would think. Rhaenys did not like to play with him, either. Daenerys said because she was a proper lady and not a child like them anymore, but Aemon said it was because she hated him.

Elia Martell had died in the sack of King’s Landing protecting baby Aegon and sweet Rhaenys, many a year ago. Sometimes, when no one else was around, Rhaenys would confide in Daenerys that she still had nightmares about it. And it was true: many nights would Rhaenys wake up crying, without answering why. Only Daenerys knew why, and she promised to tell nobody.

“Maybe you could tell me about the Starks, could you? What is Lord Eddard like? Is Lady Catelyn pretty like everyone says she is? Is it true they ride direwolves—”

“I do not know, Daenerys. Leave me alone. I am not feeling like talking about this right now. Do you _not_ understand?”

“I just want to know! A simple yes or no answer would suffice, but if you want to keep brooding and cry into the river then so be it!” Daenerys ran away from him all the way to her chambers, many tears of frustration and humiliation running from her eyes. She could not believe, nor did want to marry him. _He is a baby at heart, and he only keeps me away from him._

Aemon and Daenerys were betrothed since her birth, a fine Targaryen tradition. When she looked at him, however, when she spoke to him and played with him it did not felt right.

“Mother, please.” She had begged her mother many days. “I do not desire to marry Aemon. Not yet. Not in a few years.”

“My sweet child, please understand,” Rhaella stroked her hair, as gently as she could. “Sometimes marriages do not start with love, nor trust. It grows into one, and when you less think of it—”

“I am not in love with Aemon, and never will.” And these words held truth to her. At eight years old, she had been declared the Realm’s Delight, and many Lords had predicted she would be an incomparable beauty far into her youth. Queen-Dowager Rhaella, of course, had whooshed away those Lords. _Do not listen to them, my sweetheart. They are not worthy of you._ But it was not the Lords she had in mind, nor winning the hearts of the men at court at such an early age. Many nights, she would dream of that stable girl at the castle’s gate. The girl was no princess: she had matted auburn, almost red hair, and deep black eyes. She was always dirty and smelled of horses, and her clothes were made of sacks and wool. She was no older than Daenerys, and so they would both play until they called the princess for dinner.

“What is your name?” Daenerys had asked the afternoon before, after countless days of playing with her. “I do not know your name, I think.”

“Baela, Your Grace.” The girl had answered.

“Who is your mother?” She asked innocently. Baela was caught off-guard, seemingly taken back by the princess answer. “You have a Targaryen name. Are you a bastard?”

“No, Your Grace.” The girl answered nervously. “I do not know my mother’s name. Father said she was a prostitute from Flea Bottom, but my father’s name is Sam. He works as a cook.”

“A cook?” Daenerys’s face brightened up. “So he can bake us some delicious cakes?”

Baela giggled. “No! He says they are only for the court. We only eat potatoes and bread. But sometimes we go to the Sept, and we get some warm soup.”

“I could get you some cakes. Sometimes I sneak into the kitchens to get my nephews some desserts. I could bring you some.”

“Can you? Won’t you get punished?”

“I could do it just for you. Just don’t tell anyone!”

Both girls giggled in secrecy. A plan was made, and there was no stopping Daenerys when she set her mind to it. Next day, she would bring some honey cakes and cookies, just for Baela and her. They would have an impromptu teatime and talk regally just like the ladies at court. Dinnertime came, and she sneaked into the kitchen. She hid some cakes inside her dress, and some inside a carefully sewn pocket inside her skirt. She was ready. She just had to hide these under her bed until morning after breakfast, and then she would enjoy them with Baela.

But there was no Baela next day, nor the another. She would ask her father where she went, but Daenerys did not know anything about him either, other than he ate potatoes sometimes. _Does not she want to eat these? Maybe she got lost on her way here?_ But she never came. The cakes fell from her dress, and a couple of stray dogs ate them with impatience.

“Princess!” A startled voice behind her back called out to her. “What are you doing here? Your queen mother is looking for you.”

“Ser Barristan,” she could not contain her tears any longer. Her cheeks puffed, red from shame, and her violet eyes watered. “Do you know where Baela is? Have you seen her?”

“Forgive me, princess. I do not know anyone of name Baela, I am afraid. Let’s go back to the castle, shall we?”

“She had red hair, and black eyes.” A full, whole-hearted snob came from inside her soul. “Her father works in the kitchen. Do you know who he is?”

But he knew instantly the situation she was in. The half-eaten cakes on the floor, her ragged and wild hair, the look of pure disappointment on her innocent face—a hopelessness only a child could have. Daenerys looked smaller than she was; her dresses were always a bit too large for her size, and her long hair made her seem more petite than her actual size. The entire stable stopped to look at the hopeless little princess, whispering and murmuring around.

“Your Grace, we will discuss this inside. I understand your frustration, but we will calmly talk about this once we are in the castle, understood?” Barristan felt a sense of uneasiness being the one giving the orders, but Daenerys responded after a moment and grabbed the Ser by the cape. “Stay close, Your Grace.”

He grabbed Daenerys and mounted her up on his horse, making their way towards the castle. The only sounds coming from the Princess were only sobs and sniffles, and when they had arrived at the gates her eyes were fully swollen and red. Rhaella and Rhaegar were there waiting impatiently, and when Daenerys unsaddled, she came running after her.

“My sweet girl, where were you? The servants looked for you everywhere.”

“Daenerys.” A deep, commanding voice came from behind Rhaella. Rhaegar stood there, a half-concerned look on his face. “Do not disappear just like that. You know this.”

“Sorry.” But hiding her face was fruitless, since almost immediately her mother and her brother caught up to her sadness. “I just wanted to play.”

Rhaegar walked up to her and kneeled. Face to face, he looked at Daenerys and smiled. “Whatever must’ve happened, we’re glad you’re safe. Maester Colrin is looking for you, it is time for your studies.”

“Yes, Rhaegar.” Wiping away the remnants of her tears, Selmy escorted her to the study. The walk was long and tedious; everywhere she went everyone looked at her and whispered. But she had no one to blame—she was dirty, puffy and disheveled. Her dress was stained with the ever-so-eternal stains of honey, and she smelled of horses and vanilla. _I will take a long, warm bath after I study_ , she thought, _and then_ _I will sleep until tomorrow’s morning_. But she knew, deep into her heart, that the plan wouldn’t come into fruition. Her Queen Mother always requested for her to be at dinner, and would she come in late, Viserys would scold her like he was an authority over her. But Aemon would just laugh at it, while Rhaegar would just shake his head.

She arrived at the study, and Aemon was already there. His brown, curly hair almost seemed like the night itself, for only a candle was lighting the room. She had wondered in the past how much he looked like the late Lady Lyanna, but the courtiers were completely sure he was the son of Ned Stark, who had bedded his own sister. _He looks so much like him_ , Rhaenys had told her one night after sneaking into Daenerys’s chambers, _there is no doubt that Ned Stark laid with Lyanna, and Papa is covering for him._ But Dany had refused those claims and squabbled with her niece. It was Rhaegar himself that owned it up to him, and if you looked at the right angle, Aemon looked like a childish, brown-haired and grey-eyed Rhaegar. The servants said that, even months after Lyanna had died, Rhaegar would wake into the night and play his harp: a sorrowful tune filling the gardens, and his tears adorning his face.

“You are late, again.” Aemon raised an eyebrow, looking at the messy state of Daenerys. “Did you pick a fight with a dog?”

“No, but it would’ve been for the better if that meant skipping lessons. Where is Maester Colrin?”

“He is late, too. You’ve gotten him. Help me in deciphering what this says and tell no one.”

Daenerys approached him, ignoring his stank face after catching a whiff of her horse and mud scent. She did not care, was he planning to marry her, he would have to get used to it. “What is this?”

“A raven came today’s morning, but I accidentally killed him with an arrow during practice before it got to Maester Colrin’s study. The handwriting is hard to read, but it seems from the North.” Aemon said neutrally, almost frustrating Daenerys.

“The North!” She said gleefully. “Let me read it, and then I will tell you.”

The small piece of paper was a bit torn—from Aemon handling it roughly, she speculated—, but nothing too serious. The handwriting was, however, nothing she ever read before, and she wondered how secretly sophisticated the Northmen were.

“Travel… horseback… that’s all I’m getting.” She let out a sigh. “Are they like the Dothraki? Do they like horses, too?”

Aemon rolled his eyes. “No, that is not it. Give it back to me.” Grabbing it out of her hands, the boy put all his wisdom and intelligence into it, frowning and putting it close to his eyes. “The candlelight is too weak! How am I supposed to read it?”

“Perhaps we could open the window.” Daenerys shrugged, and Aemon blushed. His stubborn nature meant that sometimes he would ignore the obvious, and in turn he would humiliate himself. Dany walked up to the window and opened it. A breeze of fresh, spring air caressed her face, and the sweet smell of the bread below made her stomach grumble. She suddenly remembered the honey cakes, and consequently got sad again. _Does Baela know how to read?_ She thought. Perhaps not, because as Aegon had told her once, the commonfolk do not know how to read. Not many of them, anyway.

“Indeed, travel…horseback… it is… huh.” Aemon opened wide his eyes in amazement. “They are… they are coming to King’s Landing!”

“What are you saying—” Daenerys got interrupted mid-sentence, as the noise of a man throat-clearing grounded them back to earth. Maester Colrin stood under the doorway, a deep frown adorning his face. The sole image sent shivers down the children’s spines, and they quickly retreated to their seats.

“Well, children,” the Maester said, adjusting his chains. “Would you kindly please give back the letter?”

Aemon nodded in a rapid manner and handed the Maester the letter. Maester Colrin was old: he sported a hunchback, and the little hair he had left turned pure white. The blue in his eyes were half-hidden by his droopy, wrinkled lids, and he used a cane to support himself while walking. No matter how old his body was, his mind stayed sharp and clever, with a wit and courage many young, healthy people would envy of. That’s what the Maester himself said, anyway. Daenerys considered him a grumpy, almost too protective old man—but she also looked up to him, flawlessly speaking six tongues, and knowable of every single house in Westeros.

“Very well,” Colrin spoke at last, after giving all his willpower to read the letter. “May I please know why do you two possess this?”

Aemon gulped, and started to play with his hands. Daenerys looked at him discreetly; they both knew would he admit killing the raven, he’d be in enormous trouble. His father would reprimand—and possibly ground him—, and he would be looked down upon the court. She took a big breath and spoke.

“Sorry, Maester Colrin, it was me. I snuck into the study, and the raven was there. I took the letter and read it but could not understand. I was hoping Aemon could help me, but I didn’t mean to get him in trouble for my actions. I… apologize.”

Colrin saved the letter in one of his pockets with trembling hands. His chains rattled with every delicate move he made, and the silence of his manners made both children nervous. “I am very disappointed in you, Princess. Your Queen Mother shall know of this misbehavior.” Daenerys nodded sadly and retreated deeper into her seat. She discreetly gazed at Aemon, who was looking at her wide eyed. _What goes around comes around_ , she thought. _He will repay_. “However, today’s lessons will be cancelled. The subject of the letter is of utter importance, and I will notify the king. You are dismissed, and please go take a bath, Princess.”

The children ran out of the study and hid in their respective chambers. Before closing the door, Daenerys heard Aemon whisper his thanks, and she looked at him quickly. _Repay me soon_ , she mouthed, and nothing but a giggle came from the boy’s mouth. Soon, the servants came to prep the girl for her bath and stripped her from her dirty garments. The water was hot, almost too hot, but she sat on it in a happy manner.

“Careful, Princess. The water it is still boiling.” A maid said, offering her hand to take Dany out of it. But the girl shook her head and sank deeper into it.

“It is alright, I like it better this way.” Daenerys could not remember this certain servant’s name, no matter how much she tried. She always had to remind herself to remember her names to show her gratitude; _a good lady always thanks her subjects_ , her mother said constantly. But she remembered most of them anyways, especially the men in the stables, and the cooks in the kitchen. One of them was named Alysanne. “Like the Good Queen!” Spurted Daenerys one day, and the woman gave her one extra lemon cake, laughing. She did not, however, look like the legendary queen. Alysanne Targaryen was blond, with blue eyes and fair-skinned. Alysanne the Cook was sturdy, brown eyed and with dark brown hair. But she was good, indeed, and always sneaked Daenerys some pastries. She also told her stories and folklore from Flea Bottom and let her pet the stray dogs and cats her mother did not let her.

“Are you certain, Your Grace? You can get burned.”

“I’m certain…” _Name, her name, what is her name?_ “Thank you, Walda.” That was it, her name was Walda!

The servant giggled like she wanted to say something, but she simply nodded. “Very well. I will come back in a short moment.”

And Daenerys closed her eyes, enjoying the boiling water touching her skin.


	2. Sansa | The Dragonfly

**II**  
**Sansa**  
**The Dragonfly**

The road was long, tedious and humid. Upon reaching the Crossroads, the terrain became muddy, unstable and dangerous. One of the soldiers had informed Ned that a long-week storm had hit the roads, and thus the rivers overflooded and a nearby town had to be relocated. Twice a day they stopped to rest and inspect the surrounds for unsafe terrain, and the action made the journey to King’s Landing twice as long. Sansa sat on the carriage, a hand on her cheek and her elbow resting on the small window. She mindlessly played with the embroided handkerchief she had finished the afternoon before; it had a fancywork of a dragonfly in one side, and a winter rose in the other. Her father was outside, having a long and never-ending conversation with Robb, and the Septa had taken little Arya outside. She had been instructed to stay in the carriage for her safety, but it was a nice day outside and she wanted to play with Jeyne near the river.

“It is not fair,” she complained to her father when he came back. “Why is Arya able to leave the carriage, but not me? She is still just a babe, but I am a proper lady now. I will behave, and she will not.”

“Your sister is four, my child.” Ned motioned for her to come outside, aiding her with the steps of the carriage. “She is not a babe; she is growing and learning. You can come with me, instead.”

“Where will we be going?” Her face brightened. She had heard that the river at this time of the year was lovely, with all kind of colorful flowers growing around it. She could take a few—she thought—and when she arrived at King’s Landing, she would be adorned with all her pretty flowers in her hair, and everyone would think she is a queen, too. And then, when she would be on her way to Winterfell again, she would pick a few more too, and gift them to her Lady Mother and little Bran and baby Rickon. 

“There is an inn near here, if the soldiers instructed clearly. We will eat at there.” Ned looked at Sansa’s immediate disappointment on her face, which was masked quickly.

“Yes, Father.” She looked away where little Arya and Septa Mordane were; the little girl was feeding a small flock of birds, with the Septa carefully guiding her. Arya sneezed, however, and the birds flew away in disturbance. Arya gave a whole-hearted laugh, and the Septa hugged her in accordance, smiling. She wanted to play, too, and feed the birds and the bunnies and squirrels hopping around the bushes and trees. _But no proper lady does that, does she?_ She sadly composed herself and took her father’s hand.

They rode on horseback to the inn, and when they finally got there a small band of soldiers were waiting for them. Eddard helped Sansa to get off the horse and made their way inside the building; it was dark, with a faint smell of beer and ale, but the delicious smell of bread and soup overpowered all others. A blonde, sturdy woman wearing a dirty apron noticed their presence and rushed herself to serve them.

“Welcome m’lords of Winterfell. What will you need today?” The woman spoke with a raspy voice, noticing the Stark sigil. Sansa looked at her, and she saw her green eyes and a wound that almost turned into a scar on her left eye, intriguing the girl.

“Mushroom soup for us two, an ale for me, and some cranberry juice for my daughter if you would be so kind.”

“Aye, m’lord. As fast as we can.” The woman disappeared behind a wooden door, in which Sansa presumed was the kitchen. Discreetly sitting beside her father, she asked:

“Father, this is a scary place. Cannot we eat outside, with the Septa and Arya?”

“Arya already ate, and it is time for her nap. If you desire, I can call for Septa Mordane to eat with us.”

But Sansa raised a brow at the mere thought of Septa Mordane eating and drinking in an inn, and she would be lying if she said it didn’t make her smile. Such a serious and well-behaved woman like the Septa drinking ale at candlelight was a sight she would giggle at for days, but she shook her head. “No, it is alright. I am grown, and I should not be scared.”

Eddard smiled with the warmness of heart only a father could have and kissed her forehead. Her Lady Mother had told Sansa that once she turned 16, she would marry Prince Aegon to consolidate the peace between House Stark and House Targaryen, and the thought of living in King’s Landing along the Prince made butterflies flutter around her belly. But that also meant that she would barely see her family, because her duties would be in the Crownlands, taking care of her new family. _You will fit in nicely_ _and make lots of friends with the ladies at the Red Keep_ , her father had told her once, _I am sure Princess Rhaenys and Princess Daenerys would love to have you as company._ But she thought of Winterfell, and as cold and sometimes far away it was, she loved it.

“Here ya go, m’lord and m’lady.” The woman handed them two bowls of mushroom soup and their respective drinks. The food smelled deliciously, and the girl’s stomach growled a little. She blushed and apologized, action which made the woman laugh loudly. “It is alright, m’lady, you get to hear all those sounds all day when working in an inn!” Sansa took a spoonful of soup, but it was too hot and made her spit it and cough. The woman got wide-eyed and profoundly apologized, saying she would bring another one if she did not like that one.

“No, it is alright.” Sansa said wiping her mouth, her eyes watery from her burned tongue. “It’s just too hot. It will cool eventually. Thank you.” Her father nodded in agreement, and the woman bowed and left. They both ate in silence, with only the sounds of the utensils filling their table. In the inn’s corner, there stood a couple and their child, no more of 3 years of age. He looked like her older brother, Robb, but smaller. The boy was eating a large portion of soup, while the parents satisfied their hunger with bread and water. The man looked at her suddenly, and she quickly diverted her gaze to her bowl. She was curious about the situation—why is the child eating more? Wouldn’t adults eat more because they’re bigger? Back at Winterfell, on the dinner hall, her parents and their subjects would eat more: honeyed cakes, mutton, lamb, bread, ale or wine, while Sansa and Arya would feel full with just roasted boar and mint tea or milk. Robb would also eat more, but still fewer than their parents. “Father,” she whispered to Eddard, who has heartily drinking his ale. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, my child, what is it?”

Sansa leaned in to ask him, hoping for a bit of secrecy. “Why is the child eating more than their parents?” Eddard looked at the table in the corner and called the blonde woman again. He whispered something on her ear, and the woman nodded and disappeared again. A minute later, she came out and brought the family a basket full of vegetables, fruits, bread and meat. The family stood up and walked to Eddard’s table, and bowed profusely.

“Thank you, m’lord of Winterfell. But we cannot pay for this.”

“Aye, that’s why I will. Please do not worry and enjoy your meal. You can take some home, too. It is on me.” The father bowed profusely, while the mother thanked him with tears on her eyes. The two went back to their table and distributed their meal evenly eating with fervor. Eddard looked then at Sansa, who was gazing at the family with wonder and amazement. “When you are hungry, and so are you children, you put the needs of your children before you. Fortunately for us, we have not felt hunger, but if Gods forbid we do, you will have a hot meal in front of you. I assure you this.” Eddard hugged her daughter and kissed her cheek. Sansa stared a last time to the family and kept on eating thoughtfully.

They both finished and Lord Eddard left a big bag of golden dragons on his table, thanking the woman. As they made their way to the door, a disheveled and dirty Stark bannerman came from it and bowed respectfully.

“Sorry to interrupt, m’lord, but I bring bad news.”

Sansa grabbed his father’s cape and clenched it in fear. “What is it?” He asked, grabbing his daughter hair and caressing it trying to reassure her.

“The roads are completely destroyed, I am afraid. Some workers from House Darry have been dispatched to guide us and reconstruct it, but they will not arrive until tomorrow’s morning at this pace.”

“Seven hells…” Eddard muttered, sighing. “Do we have enough supplies and tents for camping outside?” All their journey they had not camped outside, but in small castles the local Lords were so kind to shelter them in. Sansa frowned at the idea of sleeping in the outside at night, with the many bugs and smell of horses covering the area.

“We checked for them, but many were damaged it seems from last week’s storm. We can send our men to search for help, it is necessary.”

“No, that is fine. We will find a way. Thank you.” Eddard looked exasperated around, placing his sight on his daughter. He smiled at her warmly, assuring her that everything would be fine. The sound of galloping came from outside, and from the horses came off Robb, little Arya and Murch, one of Winterfell’s excellent hunters. The boy was no older than 10, but his father’s servants treated him with the respect of a grown, ruling lord. He excelled at archery, dueling and horse riding; and when he had some free time from training, he would take Sansa to ride along him on his favorite horse, a grey stallion named Wind. She liked to feel the wind on her face and the fastness of the gallop, and those were the rare moments when she would set herself free and scream, laugh and speak her lungs out. She felt free, and when she would get back home from the ride and her cheeks and nose were red from the cold, she would regain her composure and act like a lady yet again. But sometimes she would sneak a grin to her brother, and he would smile back.

“Father,” Robb approached him running. “I was told many men were injured while inspecting the road ahead, is this true?”

“Oh, Gods…” Sansa saw his father rub his eyes in frustration and anxiety; the entire journey to King’s Landing had been a mess from start to finish. Since he had announced that they would travel to it, her Lady Mother refused profusely, claiming that it would be an imminent death for her children to touch Targaryen lands—so in an unprecedented turn of events, he had somehow convinced her to stay with baby Rickon and little Bran, and so he would take the girls and the eldest boy to the Crownlands. It was no easy task, however, since her mother tried to convince Sansa anyway to stay in Winterfell. “The dragons breath fire, my love.” She once said, brushing Sansa’s hair. “And fire melts ice.”

But since she was merely a babe, she had heard stories of the greatness of King’s Landing, the enormous size and glory of the Red Keep, the dancing ladies in the gardens, the brave jousts of the shining knights, the pretty colorful tailored dresses the Targaryen princesses wore, and the magical atmosphere the long gone dragons had left there. “There is a Godswood in the Red Keep, mama, I can pray there for our family.” But her efforts had been in vain, since the day before parting her mother broke down in tears begging for her father to let her stay. She had never seen her Lady Mother cry—not like that—and not for her. She felt guilty and sad, but Septa Mordane took her and Arya away from their fighting parents. She could not hear anything, except some vague words. “Lyanna… murderer… treason…” That is all she heard before her father came out from the room a few minutes later and kneeled before her, kissing her forehead and promising to protect her. Catelyn came behind him, with tears still humid on her eyes and a faint smile. He stood up and her Lady Mother hugged her, discreetly whispering on her ear:

“If someone tries to hurt you, hurt them back. That is what a lady does.” But the sole idea of hurting someone—especially in a physical way—terrified her. That is not ladylike, not what the Septa had taught her, not even what her mother had taught her. Not even rowdy Arya had hurt a fly, much less the strong and clever Robb, so how could her mother ask her for something so terrible? But a lady _is_ polite, so she nodded anyway and hugged her back.

“Sorry to interrupt, m’lords of the Winterfell…” The blonde woman spoke quietly, but confident. “There are a few rooms upstairs, so you, m’lord, and your children could sleep through the night. They aren’t the best, aye, but it is better than sleeping on the humid, muddy ground. I know this.”

Eddard looked at the woman and then at his children once again. After a long sigh, he nodded in a resigned manner and took another small bag of golden dragons, handing it to the woman. “Very well. I may use all the room you have, for my family and some of our men.” The woman took the bag gleefully and ran upstairs to tidy up the rooms, to which Sansa wondered why she was so comely. Perhaps it had been her father’s kindness that persuaded the blonde woman? She suddenly realized she didn’t even know her name, which frustrated her. _A good lady always knows who to thank and be grateful with_ , said Septa Mordane one day.

The afternoon came, and after playing and conversating with Robb and little Arya, the Starks prepared to go to bed. The inn was lighted by a weak candle in a corner, and so Sansa could not see properly. But a robust figure stood in the stairs folding a dress so carefully, and she couldn’t help but recognize it. Her green eyes shone over the faint fire of the candle, and her blonde hair had turned greasy and disheveled. Sansa wanted to know her name to thank her properly, but she did not know how exactly to approach her. The two suddenly had eye contact, and Sansa couldn’t help but blush and divert her gaze. The woman giggled and motioned her to come, which Sansa mysteriously agreed to.

“I am sorry, miss, but I do not know your name. I do not know how to approach you.”

The woman looked at her tenderly while folding another dress. “My name is Rennifer, my good lady. But everyone calls me Ren, or fat Ren. Aight, not a very flattering nickname, but it does its work. What about yours, if I may ask?”

Sansa tidied up her dress and looked at her hands, shyly. Is as if she had forgotten all her manners and education, and she did not know why. “Sansa of House Stark, lady Rennifer. Eldest daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully.”

Rennifer chuckled. “No need for all these titles nor formalities, m’lady. I’m but an innkeeper, and I do not deserve them.” Sansa looked at her and smiled. _That is not tru_ e, she thought, _everyone deserves even a little respect. Even little Arya, as rowdy and dirty she may be._ She looked at the woman’s eye, completely mesmerized by it. The scar she had on it went from her cheekbone, to her hairline. At candlelight she could not see much, but she saw it was a little bit white, a little bit pink. Not too old, not too recent. “Got any questions to ask?” Rennifer asked raising an eyebrow, and Sansa could see that she did not raise her left one.

“Please forgive and forget if this is unpolite of me, lady Rennifer.” She shifted onto the step, anxiously playing with her hair. “But can I ask what happened to your eye?”

The woman mood’s fell, she could see it on her face, but she insisted. For the first time in a few weeks—since she had left Winterfell—she was curious about something around her. And as invasive it may had been, she did not want to know exactly what happened to her eye; not a weapon, not the attacker: but the story behind it. Yes, that was it—Sansa wanted to hear this woman’s story, just like her father had briefly told her the stories of the commonfolk who sat at their dinnertable back at Winterfell. She wanted to know what were the events that led this woman to have a big scar on her eye, and how did she deal with it. “I do not think this is a story I could tell to such a gorgeous, young and polite lady like you, m’lady. Your father might kill me if I did, aye.”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, almost offended. “My dear father is not like that. He is gentle, and good, and understanding, and just. He would not kill you.”

Rennifer sighed and put the folded clothes beside. Gazing for a short moment at Sansa, she nodded and reclined back. “I’ve been working on this inn since a few years back, even before you were born if I guessed your age right. Not everyone who comes here is kind and just like you and your family. Some of them come to steal, to destroy and kill.” The woman looked down her lap and pretended to dust off her apron. “My father was the original owner of this inn, aye, and when he died my beautiful sister traveled all the way from here to Maidenpool to tell me. I was there working as a washerwoman, but my sister could not take care of the inn. She was off to get married and heavily pregnant. She gave birth on her way to Maidenpool!” Sansa smiled imagining that stressful situation, and the woman let out a laugh. “But when she arrived there, with a sweet, small girl in her weak arms, how could I resist? I left my life behind in Maidenpool and traveled here at the crossroads. My poor sister was fragile and sick from the birth, and so she passed away before we arrived.”

Sansa gasped and her eyes watered, covering her mouth. She had not expected such a twist of events, but she wanted to hear more. After looking expectantly at the woman, she continued. “I now had to take care of a sweet babe and an inn. So, I raised the girl as my own daughter, and named her Belle. Such a little thing she was, with her green eyes, and brown hair. She took care of the dogs and fed the horses while I attended the inn. But evil men know not of children nor justice, and one night…” Rennifer paused and tears came down her eyes, like waterfalls. “She was just merely of three name days, and two men with banners I could not recognize stomped inside the inn and scared her. She started bawling her lungs out, so they took her, and I fought them. One of them cut my eye and I lost my vision. They took her, and oh, Gods…” A heartful sob came from the woman’s mouth, and she clenched her apron. “I did not see it, but I heard her wailing. When I finally recomposed myself from the floor, they were gone, but her body laid there, in the grass, her eyes wide open, and no sounds coming from her mouth. I did not care about the grain they stole, nor the gold they took. She had no breath, no more tears, no more shine.”

Sansa started crying, too. The woman noticed and recomposed herself, apologizing deeply. She tried to hug the girl, but the scare was deep within her soul and heart, and she could not comprehend why that happened. A few deep, loud steps came from the floor upstairs, and her father appeared onto the light, his figure cutting a very intimidating shadow.

“My sweetheart, my child.” Eddard ran to Sansa, hugging her and looking at the crying woman. “What happened here?”

Sansa could not speak, not because she couldn’t, but because she refused. Rennifer apologized and kneeled deeply, begging for both the girl and her father’s forgiveness. “I am sorry, I did not mean to, she asked and I…”

But Sansa put a hand on her father’s shoulder and shook her head. “It is alright, papa. I just need to sleep.” Eddard asked her a few more questions, but she refused to answer. The woman disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a cup of warm milk, offering it to Sansa, but she refused. She composed herself, tidied up her dress, and bowed to the woman.

“I am so sorry, lady Ren.” The girl looked deep into the woman’s exhausted, puffy eyes, and smiled. “Please sleep well.”

And upstairs she went.

The next morning was rushed and stressful. The men were ready to part again, as the men from House Darry had arrived earlier than expected and were expecting their journey restart. “We know of a few other ways you can go, m’lord.” One Darry man had told her father in a thick southern accent. “But if we are to arrive to King’s Landing by next week, we need to part now.”

She had woken up too early for her liking. She did like mornings—after all, the sounds of the birds chirping made her happy, especially in Spring on Winterfell, where not many sweet birds other than ravens and owls could be heard. However, it was still faintly dark when little Arya woke her up kicking her back, and she reprimanded her sister from doing so. “That is not polite, and it is unpleasant.” But Arya just stuck out her tongue and jumped off the bed. She was extremely tired, too, since the events of last night had left her exhausted, with her eyes heavy and her muscles aching from all the crying. When she made her way out of the inn, she did not see Rennifer, and it made her feel sad and lonely. She had gotten strangely attached to the woman and her story, and she wanted to bid her farewell before she parted. _I will remember her forever_ , Sansa thought looking at her dragonfly handkerchief, _but I want her to remember me too._ She secretly placed it where the woman had left the folded clothes last night, somewhere no one else but Rennifer could find it. _It is hers now, only hers._

She got inside her carriage, where her father, brother and sister were already waiting for her. Septa Mordane had gotten into another carriage, accompanied by peasant women she had performed charity to, and Sansa wondered if they would make part of the crew from then on.

Just as the carriage driver commanded to the horses to start galloping, Rennifer’s voice caught everyone’s attention. The woman ran to the Stark carriage, where Sansa opened the window and looked out of it. “I’m sorry, m’lady of Winterfell. So clumsy and unpolite of me to approach you like this.” Sansa smiled wholeheartedly seeing her friend, and spoke whispering:

“I left you a gift, lady Ren. You must find it.”

The woman smiled again and bowed. “Aye, I did see, and I got a gift for you too. I am sorry for the troubles I caused last night.” The woman took a biscuit from her pocket: it had the shape of a bunny, and on the back, it had _SANSA_ written on sloppy handwriting. “I got early to bake you this, and I almost didn’t catch you to gift it.” Sansa smiled and her eyes watered. She bowed deeply from her carriage and hugged the woman from the window. Eddard panicked in fear of her little girl’s falling on the mud and hurting herself, but Rennifer helped Sansa into the carriage again and tidied her hair. Thank you, Sansa mouthed one last time before the carriage walked, and waved her farewells from afar. Arya laughed at her sister’s antic, and started to wave, too. Sansa smiled, looking at her biscuit, and after a long silence she spoke.

“Papa?”

Eddard woke up from his trance, shocked by her daughter’s action. “Yes, my sweet girl?”

Robb was snoring lightly, exhausted from waking up too early, and Arya wasn’t paying attention as she played with a wooden ball. Sansa leaned in to her father, and whispered:

“When I am queen, I will not allow evil men to run free.” She took a piece of the biscuit and ate it, staring determinately at her father. “I promise.”


	3. Daenerys | The Dance

**III**   
**Daenerys**   
**The Dance**

The punishment Daenerys had received after “confessing” to her letter-stealing crime had been disproportionate, in her own thinking. She had to follow her mother around all noon, and that meant attending her boring and serious conversations and chatter with her ladies, except this time only one of them had attended. She didn’t understand half of the things they talked about, and her small glimpse of hope she had of listening to some interesting gossip was completely destroyed when Queen-Mother Rhaella insisted on her and her lady teaching Daenerys some needlework for her dresses. They drank tea and talked about issues in the Red Keep, but none of it was interesting to Daenerys.

“Did you see the quantity of wine Elyse drank last night? Woman couldn’t even stand on her own!” Spoke a woman Daenerys knew was called Emma from House Rosby, which would spend more time with Rhaella than her own kids. _Oh, I would love for my little girls to be queens, too!_ Emma would say nonchalantly occasionally. _I think Aegon is smitten with my lady Janna, don’t you think, Rhaella?_ But he wasn’t, in his own words. Lady Janna was a girl a few years older than Aegon, with brown hair and brown eyes, whose interest was in kittens and horses, not boys. This manifested itself in other ways other than attractions, since Aegon himself could not stand her. “She is loud, and rowdy and rude.” But Janna said the same about him, and so no one understood where Lady Emma ponderations came from.

“It was indeed a shameful event. I will ask her to moderate herself from now on, for her own sake.” Said Rhaella, gracefully drinking her cup of tea. “Now, Daenerys, that stitch is completely sideways. Redo it and show me.”

But Daenerys sighed and threw her hoop onto the floor. “This is stupid!” Emma gasped, feigning shock at the princess’s words. “The maids embroider my dresses, why should I learn to do it myself?”

“Daenerys, I did not teach you to speak that way.” Rhaella stared at her sternly, with the gaze only a careful mother could have. “This is important work. You may one day need a beautiful dress and no one around to help you get it.”

“The children in the stables need no beautiful dresses, and no one around to make them. I shouldn’t have, neither.”

“Now, princess.” Emma spoke, gulping anxiously the last drop of her mint tea. “The children in the stables are of… different needs, understood? You are a princess, and you should present yourself as one—”

“Emma.” Rhaella interrupted the woman, looking directly at her brown eyes. The people of Westeros agreed that dragons ceased to exist a century ago, but their deadly gaze had stayed on the Targaryens themselves. “She is my daughter, and my duty to teach her.”

Lady Emma turned red as a beet and nodded. She didn’t completely dislike Emma per se, but she always took opportunity to get herself into her mother and Dany’s business. When she was not reprimanding Daenerys, she was giving unsolicited advice to Rhaenys regarding her clothes and hairstyles; sometimes, she would push and force her own son—Byron—to train and play with Aegon, even when his own son liked the company of other boys better. Even with Aemon, she sometimes would tell stories of a bastard her great-great-grandfather had, and Aemon would take deep offense. Rhaegar would subtly dismiss her to do other activities, such as checking the roses in the maze to see whether they were damaged or not just to get rid of her presence, but Rhaella always kept her at check. When she caught her being inappropriate, anyway.

“Mother, I want to go out and play with Rhaenys and Aegon. I promise I will be good. The letter incident will be no more, I beg you.” Her cheeks puffed and went red, and her violet eyes pleaded. That morning she had been forced to go to the Sept, to pray in contemplation and regret for her actions. Hours of pure silence alongside two Silent Sisters and a septa, who did not make any effort to talk to her; then, at lunchtime, Rhaegar had neglected his own food to sermon her about the dangers and implications of reading the Crown’s official and confidential letters, while Viserys dedicated himself to mirror his brother’s actions. By noon, she was forced to study on her own alongside a window overlooking the small yard where Viserys, Aegon and Aemon trained, listening to Maester Colrin light snores as he took his fifth consecutive nap, and then her mother had requested her presence so she could embroider with the unpleasant presence of Lady Emma. _Surely a murderer could have gotten off easier_ , she thought.

“And I believe you. That is why you have received such a harsh punishment. Those actions were not of you, and we are making sure this is the last time you try to do one of these… antics.”

Daenerys looked down to her lap, ashamed and furious. Next time, it would be Aemon doing favors to her. And it would be a enormous one after all she had to endure just to justify his clumsiness and curiosity; maybe she would ask him to sneak into the vaults and fetch her a dragon skull, just for the amusement of it; thieving a bag full of pastries from the kitchen would be a wonderful idea, but Daenerys stomach would start to ache after a few of them, and their plans would be revealed. She discreetly shook her head and set her thoughts aside: she would think about it later.

The princess looked out of the balcony and saw the city at the distance. If she ran away only for a few days, would they find her? Some people affirmed the brothels down the place were full of silver-haired women and children, product of the numerous unfaithful Targaryen kings throughout the years. She would blend nicely with ragged clothes and a muddy face, and she would get away from her obligations and punishments. When she got back, she would say that someone had kidnapped her, but the kidnapper had run away, and she did not remember what he looked like. Everything would be normal afterwards, and her mother would regret deeply to have put her through all that boring day. But again, a mere dream…

The embroidery session ended, and she was escorted to her chambers. It had been a terrible day, which she enjoyed no second of it; the only glimpse of hope she had was that tomorrow, after weeks of silence about it, the Starks would arrive at King’s Landing. She had imagined herself in northern clothes, playing with the northern girls and eating northern sweets. She had dreamt of wearing a crown of winter roses, just like Lyanna Stark, and playing with the other children of a White Walker invasion. Aemon had said he was going to be Azor Ahai, and Daenerys his Nissa Nissa. But they both thought about it, and concluded it was stupid and unnecessary. “I would rather be a cold White Walker than die by your sword!” Laughed Daenerys, sticking her tongue out to him. He laughed and agreed. “My sword deserves better than you, anyway!”

But Aemon and Daenerys seemed to be the only children excited for the arrival. Viserys had merely scowled when asked about it, Rhaenys had given her strong opinions on Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully, and Aegon hoped his future queen would not be a “savage cannibal witch”. Aemon was fearful, however.

“Lord Eddard treats me respectfully, but lady Sansa distrusts me. Robb is nice and trains with me when I visit Winterfell, but I have not met the other children.”

“They’re visiting our castle now. They must adapt to our rules. If they aren’t to respect you, they will be our guests no more.” Answered Rhaegar commandingly. But both Daenerys and Aemon knew that wasn’t true—Rhaella herself had said that everything was coldly calculated, and a single misstep could fire another costly war. The union between Sansa and Aegon was crucial to prevent a bloodshed.

Aegon had refused the betrothal initially, as expected. It was the Starks who sided with the Baratheons on the rebellion, and it was the Starks who had done nothing to Tywin’s orders on killing him and Rhaenys as just babies. “I do not want to marry the people who murdered my mother.” He had spoken, and Rhaenys agreed.

“They did not murder your mother, my son.” Rhaegar responded sternly and exhausted. “The Lannisters gave the order; Tywin, to be exact. He has paid with his head, and so has his Clegane monster. I will hear of no more.”

Daenerys felt guilty for her fascination of the North, then. How could she admire the people who stood by and did nothing? But again, the winter winds were so magical, and she would dream of riding direwolves. She couldn’t help it: she felt her destiny linked to the North, anyway. _It must be Aemon_ , she reflected. _He’s half-north, half-south, and I am to marry him._ But no matter how much she looked at him, she could not see herself bearing him sons or daughters. She could not see herself kissing him good morning or good night or sitting beside him on the miserable ornamental chair on the dinner room. Many nights she would dream of herself on the North, riding a horse on a race against someone, but she couldn’t see exactly who.

“I heard your betrothed is quite beautiful,” Daenerys tried to console Aegon once. “That she has red hair, like dragonfire, and blue eyes like the sky.”

But Aegon just laughed. “Will you say she is beautiful when she murders me in my sleep?”

But Rhaegar had heard and reprimanded him. Aegon gave a half-apology, but it wasn’t anger that was inside Aegon—it was fear, Daenerys could see. _I miss mother_ , he had cried once when he was far younger, _I want a mother._ And that surprisingly made him bond with Aemon, but not too much.

Daenerys settled on her bed and closed her eyes. It was still to early for bed, but she was exhausted and bored to tears. Boredom is tiring, too, she spoke to herself, and went to sleep.

The next morning, she was woken up early to choose her garments for the day. A scarlet red dress was chosen for her, and her hair was tidied up in a loose half-up with a silver brooch on it. Her niece was dressed a similar way, but the color of Rhaenys’s dress was far more muted. Aemon sported a grey and black ceremonial armor, which Daenerys laughed at. “Are you fighting a war?” She joked. “No,” he answered. “But if this all goes wrong, I might soon.” Viserys came next, sporting a simple but elegant black and blood-red garment which screamed Targaryen all over him. _What a proud idiot he is_ , Daenerys whispered, and Rhaenys agreed.

But the center of attention was her nephew. Aegon had been styled in black garments with a red cape supported with a three-headed dragon brooch. His chest was plated with faux scales—or leaves, as Rhaenys joked—, giving the appearance not of a prince, but a king all by himself. A very young one, at last.

“Your grace.” Daenerys and Rhaenys bowed playfully at him. Aemon looked at them at the distance, grinning. The action made Aegon blush to the neck to his ears, making him fume in frustration.

“One day, you won’t say that joking.” And off he went, looking for his father. Barristan Selmy came after looking for the three and escorted them to the castle gates. There stood Rhaella in a simple but ornamental white dress, and Rhaegar, in a grey ceremonial armor with a muted red cape, much similar to Aegon—but the similarity between his armor and Aemon’s one was an eyestrain and gossip fuel to the onlookers at court.

At last, a horn sounded. The gallops of various horses approached the gate, and from behind of the enormous red wall a parade of Northern banners made themselves present. Aemon started to recite to Daenerys their names; _House Manderly, House Mormont, House Karstark_ … after a few pronounced houses, the Wolf banner finally made itself visible. Blue and gray, waving proudly on the wind, its carriages behind. The northern crew halted, and the main carriage stood in front of the Targaryen ceremonial infantry and the royal family. A mildly disheveled man ran to the door and opened it, and from it came a brown haired, pale man with grey eyes, who sported a neat beard and a bun, and a few uncomfortable layers of wolf furs on himself. From behind him came a boy around the same age as Aegon, whose red hair caught the attention of Rhaenys. “It does look like dragonfire.” She whispered to Daenerys, and they both giggled playfully. Aemon elbowed Dany for her to act with discretion, and she hid a smile. She was excited, and so was he. She could see the admiration he had for Eddard Stark, the shine in his eyes, the nervous fidgeting of his fingers.

Behind the boy came a little girl, no more than four or five, with brown hair and grey eyes. She looked uncomfortably like Aemon, to which he looked at her wide-eyed. The girl was wearing a pale blue dress, with her hair in two tight braids and a few flowers in it. “Is that my betrothed?” Aegon asked, severely confused. “That one is merely a babe.”

“No.” Answered quickly Rhaegar. “Impatience does not become you, son.” Aegon retreated and nodded, his face flushed faintly. The man who had opened the carriage door stuck out his hand to help a small maiden out of it, which took Daenerys by surprise. Finally, a small girl came out of it, sporting a beautiful blue dress with two wolves embroidered at the chest, and lace at the skirt. Her hair was, indeed, dragonfire, and her eyes were not the sky, but the ocean on a sunny day. She wore a cape made with wolf fur for her house symbolism, and her hair was done in loose waves and tiny braids on the side. She was younger than Daenerys and Aemon, and much younger than Aegon and Rhaenys. However, she moved as gracefully as a proper lady, and composed herself with the ease of a queen herself. Dany was mesmerized by her—she looked like a princess out of the stories her mother had told her. _She is Jenny of Oldstones_ , Daenerys thought, _she must be!_ Red hair, blue eyes, blue dress, wolves… Does her lady mother look like her, too? She was far prettier than she had ever expected, and she wondered if all the wolves before her shared her beauty too. She briefly looked at Aegon, who was blushing like an apple, with her mouth full open. Was he still regretting the betrothal? His expression was hard to read, but Rhaenys caught a glimpse of him and giggled. “He is such an idiot.” She whispered and quickly composed herself.

The Stark family stood in front of the Targaryen family, and from the first time since before Robert’s Rebellion imploded, the wolves kneeled, and so did the northmen behind them. _An historical moment, and as it should be_ , murmured Viserys, smiling. But everyone pretended not hear him and continued.

“Rise, my lords of Winterfell, my lords of the North.” Rhaegar spoke commandingly, and the lords obeyed. “Today you are not here as my subjects, or vassals, you are here as equals. As it had been before the bloodshed of many years ago. History shall not repeat itself, and from this day we begin the negotiations for it to not happen again.”

Eddard stepped forward and kneeled in front of Queen-Mother Rhaella, kissing her palm.

“Your Majesty,” spoke Lord Eddard, staring directly at him. Daenerys could not understand the emotion that currently showed on the Lord’s face, but it surely was not of warmth and bright expectation. “It is… our pleasure to meet again, not as foes, but friends. These are my children, less for the younger ones.” The man gestured for his children to come forward, and the eldest one stepped proudly.

“My name is Robb Stark, Your Grace.” If the small lord was nervous, he did not show it. He stood straight, with his head tall and confident, with a faint hint of admiration. “I have heard stories of your family bravery at battle, and how they rode dragons, and I…” He caught himself perhaps talking too much and turned red for a second. “I am proud to stand before you today.”

But the boy caught sight of Aemon and smiled brightly and happily. He ran towards his old friend and hugged him to the surprise of everyone around. Aemon corresponded the hug with slightly more discretion, but was happy himself, nonetheless. “I—” articulated Robb, looking around. “I am d-deeply sorry, Your Majesty, that was rude of me.”

“It is alright.” Answered Rhaegar, smiling warmly. “I am glad Aemon and you have bonded already. You two make excellent friends.”

Eddard looked at his son, who ran to him and carefully positioned himself behind his father. _Robb and Aemon themselves would sign this diplomacy contract_ , Rhaenys murmured, _no marriage needed…_

Rhaegar took a step forward and kneeled in front of the girl with brown hair and grey eyes, the spitting portrait of Aemon if he were a little girl. “May I know your name, little lady?”

“Arya, Your Grace…” The marvel inside her eyes was something everyone could see. “Can I see the dragons, Your Majesty?”

Eddard couldn’t help but crack a smile, and Rhaegar gave out a wholehearted laugh. The redhead girl alongside her looked mortified and gazed away, apparently ashamed of her sister’s actions. Robb shook his head and put a hand on his sister’s shoulder. _What’s the issue? I want to ride dragons, too_ … thought Daenerys.

“The dragons are long gone, I am afraid.” Rhaegar answered, still looking at Arya with a smile. “But the Red Keep still has many dragon secrets…” And the little girl’s face brightened and looked over his father for approbation. “Very well.” Stood up Rhaegar, walking over the ginger one. “My lady.”

“Your Majesty.” The girl’s voice was like a harp over a calm morning, or something Daenerys learned while studying poetry. It was quiet, sweet and smooth. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Many tales I have been told of your bravery.” Rhaegar gestured for Aegon to come forward, and the boy agreed. Still with his mouth open, he bowed before the girl and tried his best to smile properly. “My name is Sansa Stark, my prince.”

“Aegon Targaryen, my lady.” He kissed her palm and nodded anxiously. “My pleasure.”

But the one who was more enchanted by the girl’s presence was Daenerys herself. _Her name is Sansa, that is a very northern name._ “Mama,” she whispered to Rhaella while everyone else was distracted. “She looks like a princess.”

Rhaella just smiled and caressed her hair. But Daenerys could not decipher the cause of her mother’s smile—she had not said anything funny or even remotely hilarious, had she?

“My lords of the North, I am glad you’re all reunited here. By noon we will feast, and tomorrow we will celebrate the betrothal of Lady Sansa of the Winterfell, and my grandson Prince Aegon.” Rhaella spoke commandingly. Her voice was at most neutral—the voice she used when she did not want to sound angry when reprimanding Daenerys in public. For a moment, Dany had forgotten this was at most a very tense event, holding himself on a string in Viserys’s words. She looked over at the rest of the family, and everyone except for Rhaegar, Aemon and the now struck Aegon looked stressed and distrustful. Viserys was clenching his jaw in discontent, while Rhaenyra looked straight up uncomfortable. Her lady mother was doing well in composing herself, but she was clenching her hands to the front to her dress.

By noon, like Rhaella had said, a feast was made in the dinner hall. The main course was a mix of northern and south style, with spiced boar, roasted duck and honeyed chicken, while the pastries were baked by the Crownlands courtesy, composed of lemon cakes, strawberry biscuits, honey cakes, and a nauseating variety of fruit cakes. The adults seated together, with Rhaegar leading the table. To his right sat Rhaella, and on his left sat Eddard. The lords of Manderly, Karstark and Mormont stayed close to his High Lord of Winterfell, while the Targaryen closest vassals swarmed around Rhaegar the entire feast. The tension and division were not as palpable on the children’s table, with Aegon and Sansa seated in the middle, one beside the other. Arya sat at the left of Sansa, and Daenerys sat beside the littlest sister. Rhaenys positioned herself at the other side of her aunt, while Aemon laughed contently with Robb, chatting about nonsense stuff. “They act like if they had drunk all the wine!” Exclaimed Rhaenys at one point, which made Arya giggle. But Rhaenys had not said it in the playful manner Arya mistook her, but more of a mortifying observation.

Viserys had disappeared halfway through the feast, and Daenerys thanked him for that. _He would reprimand me for the littlest things in front of the guests,_ she reflected, _and that would be profoundly embarrassing._

But Aegon and Sansa did not interact with each other as much as Rhaegar had wanted them to. Sansa ate her food calmly, but mysteriously sped up when the lemon cakes arrived. _Does she like them, too?_ Daenerys thought. _I should tell her I like them too._

“Lady Sansa.” Daenerys spoke with a bright smile, handing her half her piece of cake. “Do you like them, too? You can have mine if you want.”

But the girl limited herself to just smile and shook her head. “It is alright, princess. It would not be correct to eat out of your plate and food.”

 _She surely is very polite and rightful_ , she thought disappointed. Daenerys nodded and put the piece back on her plate. “You’re right, my lady, I apologize.” She had shared her food with other girls in the past, but those were lowborn ones, and not highborn. She did know if it would be appropriate to do so with her future sister-in-law. _She probably thinks I am rude._

By twilight, half the adults in the room were drunk. Daenerys even saw her mother giggle with a northern-dressed lady, which she had not expected to see. Viserys reappeared in the hall alongside a friend of his, a squire Daenerys could not remember a name. A cheerful tune started to sound from the high floor, and the people started to stand up and dance around the packed tables. Aegon offered his hand to Sansa, and she shyly accepted. They danced along the tune of the Bear and the Maiden Fear with clumsy movements on his parts—he was faster than her, and as such he had stepped on her several times.

“Princess,” said jokingly a laughing Aemon. “Shall I have this dance?” He extended his hand, making a ridiculous face.

“Oh, my handsome knight of the seven kingdoms!” Exclaimed Daenerys in a dramatic tone, answering playfully. “How could I resist those eyes of yours?” And off they went to dance, in their uncoordinated and clumsy movements—the difference between them and Aegon and Sansa being that Daenerys and Aemon were enjoying themselves. Out of the corner of her eye, Dany saw Sansa staring at them wide eyed. “My lady!” She exclaimed, laughing and extending her hand to the northern girl. “Come join us in this dance!”

But her hand was taken by the brown-haired northern girl, who gleefully started to spin. Aemon laughed harder than he had ever done so, and for a moment they forgot that they were supposed to hate each other, historically so. They danced in circles, spinning around, holding hands and singing off-tune. Even grumpy Rhaenys joined them carefully, trying to maintain her cynical act. But soon she was tripping over Daenerys dress and accidentally spilling cranberry juice over Aemon’s armor, laughing until she was red and out of air. By the time the cheerful sounds ended, the four children sat on their respective seats, exhausted and trying to catch their breath. But Lady Sansa and Prince Aegon had sat quietly on their seats after The Bear and the Maiden Fear had ended.

“Do you not like to dance, my lady?” Daenerys asked still catching her breath. “Do you not like these songs?”

A sparkle came out of Sansa’s eyes, but spoke in a flat tone. “I do, princess.”

“Then why wouldn’t you dance with us?”

But a sorrowful tune interrupted their conversation, and Rhaenys smiled at her father. Rhaegar had begun playing on his harp a most sad tune, and suddenly the tension came back. Eddard started clenching his jaw, while Rhaella looked at her lap thoughtfully. The northern lords tried to look away, while the Targaryen vassals looked intently at his king.

“What is going on?” Asked Dany looking at his sister, who was now playing with the top of her cup of juice. “Why is everyone so quiet?”

“Manners, aunt.” Rhaenys answered quietly. “Hush and let Papa finish.”

And the princess obliged, embarrassed. By the end of the song, half the ladies at court were tearing up. Daenerys saw Eddard sigh and excuse himself outside, while the northern lords drank their wine slowly and tense.

“Rhaenys, why is everyone so angry?” Daenerys whispered, fearful. “Did Rhaegar do something wrong?”

Rhaenys leaned in and looked directly at her. “Promise you will tell no one.”

“I promise.” Daenerys nodded and frowned.

“Back on the year of the False Spring, where Papa met Lady Lyanna for the first time…” Rhaenys answered in a low tone, but loud enough for Aemon to hear. “Papa played a most sorrowful tune for the feast, and his Lady Lyanna cried through it. I do not know if it’s the same one, but everyone remembers that night…”

Aemon had looked away and excused himself, leaving the table. Robb ran after him, while Arya tried to follow them. But her steps were short, and she tripped, hurting her knee and incrusting the glass of a cup that had fallen from one table in it. Her tears started filling the silent room, and the northern lords looked disapprovingly and judgingly over the Targaryen princess, who looked as they were gossiping about the little girl’s fall.

“Lady Arya!” Exclaimed a Septa, running after her. “Are you alright? Does it hurt bad?”

“Robb…” She wailed until a Stark bannermen came and carried her away to her father, where she disappeared from the rest of the night. A lord, who Daenerys presumed was Lord Manderly because of the merman sigil on his chestplate, stood up offended and left without saying a word. Many others followed, and the ones who did not were passed out on the table after many drinks.

“I—” Spoke lady Sansa, trembling. His face was red as a beet, and she was fidgeting with her dress. “I am sorry. This is a disaster. I apologize profoundly, my prince, my princesses.” Her eyes were watery, and she looked around nervously, looking for a recognizable face.

“It is alright, my Lady of Winterfell.” Aegon rested his hand on hers, assuring her. “Your sister will be alright.”

“Is it my fault?” Sansa asked and looked over to Rhaenys, which was gazing disapprovingly of her brother’s actions. “Did I ruin the feast? Was I too rude, my princess?”

“No!” Daenerys answered before anyone could and shook her head. “Our families need to warm up to each other first. It is their fault for being angry.”

“My fault it isn’t.” Rhaenys scowled standing up and bowing to Lady Sansa before leaving the hall. It was starting to become dark, and the Lords were making their exits. Aegon became a nervous ball after his sister left him alone, and promptly made an excuse to exit. Alone were left the princess and the lady, who stared in shock at the actions before them.

“I am sorry about all of this, my lady.” Daenerys laughed nervously. “I can assure you that when you marry my nephew, everyone will like you much better.”

“They don’t like me now?” Sansa looked at her, worried.

“It’s not that… adults are stupid, that is all. They think they know better than us and so they can tell us what to feel. I think you’re pretty and kind.”

Sansa face brightened, and she straightened her back, like she suddenly had remembered she was a High Lady. “T-thank you, princess. You’re pretty and kind, too.”

They both smiled and Daenerys face lightened. “Can I ask you a question, lady Sansa?”

The northern girl was caught in surprise but nodded. “Yes, of course, princess.”

“Is it true you ride direwolves instead of horses in the north?”

And Sansa giggled wholeheartedly.


	4. Sansa | The Lake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, it's been a busy week full of college bullshit. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. :)

**IV**   
**Sansa**   
**The Lake**

The sun had finally set but the feasters were going stronger than ever. Apart from the most loyal bannermen, women, men and children alike were dancing on the castle outskirts, the stables, the gardens—they did not know of dragons nor wolves, not pacts or treason. For that night and the next few nights, they were partygoers and friends, drink-mates and dancing partners. The lowborn that had arrived with the Starks had a hard time integrating with the Crownlanders, but after a few drinks of beer and the tunes of many folks songs, soon they were laughing and drinking as if they were of their own. Those of riches, however, remained tense and distrustful. Drinks had been shared and words exchanged, but the dragonmen and wolfmen, as the commonfolk had affectively named them, were not completely happy with this soon to be pact. The remaining children had gone out to what they thought was a secluded and lonely zone in the castle, but they had found nothing but people celebrating there.

Sansa looked over to the men she recognized: Pate, a harvestman who had followed them all the way from Deepwood Motte, who was looking for “a wife as noble as a queen” which was hopefully hiding in King’s Landing. Her Father had had doubts over his journey, but he baked excellent bread with the little wheat they had, and so he stayed; there was Lyanna, a plump woman with red cheeks and dirty blonde hair, which was the complete opposite both in body and mind from the Lady Lyanna they always told Sansa about. She had hoped to move to King’s Landing and work as a baker to, in her own words, _get away from the damn cold_. Blonde Lyanna reminded Sansa of Rennifer, and the memory made her feel a little sad and nostalgic. _Will she be okay? Does she still cry about Belle? Does she still remember me?_

Her thoughts were interrupted by an abrupt push on her back, throwing her off balance. She fell into a puddle who smelled of beer and horses, and for a moment she wanted to cry. _I am no child_ , she thought, _a lady does not cry._ A hand was extended to her and looking up she found the face of Prince Aemon with his sad and remorseful eyes. “I am profoundly sorry, my lady. Let me help you get up.” Robb was behind him, trying to hide a giggle. Princess Daenerys stared at her wide-eyed, with her mouths on her mouth.

“Thank you, Lord Aemon.” She took his hand and stood up.

“Do you need help? I can call for the maids to get you a clean dress if you need it.”

“I do need it.” She said, a lingering tone of anger in her words. “But my Lord Father’s servants will take care of it.”

Aemon nodded nervously and looked at Robb. He shrugged and spoke. “Our father’s servants are drunk or well asleep, sister. You will not only need a bath, but also a change of clothes if you don’t want to smell of horse piss.”

Her face turned red as an apple and frowned. “I do not smell of horse piss! It is not my fault!” She turned to Aemon, her face frothing with embarrassment. “Pushing me was very unpolite of you, and now I look like a stable child.”

“It is not his fault.” Daenerys escaped from her trance and ran to them. “My nephew is clumsy and sometimes harsh, but he wouldn’t dare to harm a lady voluntarily. It was an accident, and he is _very_ sorry about it.”

A silence loomed over them for a moment, and Sansa felt tears forming on her eyes. A sob escaped from her mouth and she nodded. “My Lady Mother made me this dress, and now it is ruined. I did not want to dirty it, because I miss her, and she is not here to fix it.”

Daenerys looked over to Aemon, who looked like he just had ruined the pact completely. Robb walked to his sister and hugged her. _It is fine,_ he whispered to her, _she would not mind, she would understand_. “I will call the maids to take you to a bath,” Aemon said regretfully. “It will be a warm bath and you can choose if it will be lavender or roses, so you can smell nice.”

Sansa looked at him, staring deep into his grey eyes. When Aemon had visited Winterfell for the first time, she was much younger. She did not remember much, other than her Lady Mother not being happy about it, and her and father having a long discussion about it. She felt shy around him, and so did he. _He always has been polite with me, but mama said not to trust him too much._ Aemon walked away to find a sober servant, which was no easy task and would take him a lot of time—if he found anyone, at all. Asking the King, or the Queen Mother would be an immediate no; the tension would grow into unknown levels, and the bannermen were looking for any opportunity to fight each other.

They sat at a nearby log to wait for the prince, but after half an hour they gave up on it. Robb could not stop yawning, and the princess looked bored to tears. She fidgeted with her fingers nervously, until Robb excused himself and left.

“Are you going to look for Prince Aemon?” Sansa asked hopefully.

“If I find him on my way to bed, I will.” Robb answered, and she did not like his tone. When Robb would get hungry, bored or tired, he would get in a bad mood and answer sarcastically to every question asked, even if not directed at him. Other times than that, he was a much pleasant brother, and someone to look up at.

“It is not safe for a lady to be out here alone, in the night.”

“Do not worry about that!” Daenerys spoke, tidying up her dress. “The White Cloaks are around, see?” She discreetly pointed to a man of white beard and hair, and golden armor, who sat contently with a few bannermen at the distance. “That one is Ser Barristan Selmy. He is in the Kingsguard, but he is also my friend. He will protect us no matter what.”

“But he is very far away. What if someone comes from behind us, and… and…” She could not finish her sentence. She imagined someone scary and big with a knife, a sword or a butcher knife throwing themselves at the girls.

“He is on guard, look at him carefully.” Sansa looked over at Barristan, and his hand was placed on his sheath, not relaxing even a moment. “He may not look like he’s taking care of us, but he is merely pretending to not bother us. The moment something goes wrong, he and other knights and soldiers will come to our aid and take us to safety. He is supposed to protect my brother, but he assigned him to protect me. He is a very kind person and will like you too.”

Sansa smiled warmly and sighed. _That is true, knights protect princesses and ladies, just like in the songs_. She felt protected and safe, but the sudden odor of her dress startled her back to her senses. _But I am no lady, because no lady smells of horses._

“I doubt Aemon will come back.” Daenerys shrugged and took Sansa by the hand, grinning. Sansa looked at her with wonder, trying to predict her actions and thoughts. “So, let’s take a bath together, shall we? I smell of sweat, and Mama will get mad if I go to bed smelling of it.”

“Do you know where a bath is?” Sansa asked standing up from the log.

“Yes, but it does not smell of lavender and roses. It is big, and fun, and refreshing.”

Sansa nodded and followed her. She did not care of smelling of roses at that moment, and the heat of the Crownlands had gotten to her. “But what if anyone sees me in this state? It would be shameful.”

“They will not. I know of a way.”

“What about Ser Barristan? Will he follow us?”

Daenerys laughed. “Not at first, but he always finds me somehow.”

The path was a muddy and dark one. It was silent, however, with the only sounds surrounding them being of the rustled leaves and crickets. Sansa was getting desperate; the sounds of laughter and music had ceased a few minutes ago, and she did not see a bath or clean dresses in the distance. “This is a scary path, princess.”

“You think so?” Daenerys looked around and agreed. “At daylight it is lovely. Sometimes you could see bunnies hopping around, and squirrels, and colorful birds. But at night you only hear crickets and the song of the hidden frogs, I agree.” She gently squeezed Sansa’s hand, reassuring her. “It will be alright. I know this path like it is my own room. You will like it.”

A few minutes passed, and Daenerys sighed contented. Sansa caught up to her and gasped: a beautiful, moonshined small lake stood in front of them both. A tree was standing over it, dropping its falling leaves on the water occasionally. There were no crickets, nor frogs—it was completely silent and peaceful; it made Sansa remember of the tales Old Nan told her, about magic lakes and their healing properties, about the stories of pregnant women in Essos doing rituals on them to assure their baby was born healthy and strong. The tales of maidens and children playing around in the Water Gardens of Dorne, singing and forgetting about their troubles and frustrations.

“Your Grace, I cannot.” Sansa shook her head, looking at Daenerys. “Father would not like this. And my Lady Mother will know.”

“Your Father would not like you smelling of horses, and your Lady Mother wouldn’t, either. I have taken many baths on this lake.” She bent over to Sansa and whispered. “The old women say this lake is magic, that The Children of The Forest blessed it before any man stepped on this land.”

Sansa eyes lightened up. She had heard many tales of The Children of The Forest, on how they aided humanity to defeat The Others. “Is it true?”

“I think so, too.” Daenerys nodded confidently. “When I am sad or angry, I come here. Sometimes it’s to take a bath, sometimes it’s to drink the water. After I do so, I feel better and full of energy. I promise I will take care of you.”

They looked at each other, and Sansa smiled. Stepping over the humid grass, they both took their shoes off and tested the waters; it was refreshing, and Sansa wished she could dip entirely into it. After a few moments, Daenerys took off her dress, leaving nothing but her white undergarments to walk around. She took a few steps back, and jumped into the water, giggling. She came out completely wet—her silver hair mimicked the reflecting moon, and her violet eyes suddenly seemed magic, and Sansa thought she looked like a fairy. “Come over!” Daenerys gestured at her. “It is very nice.”

A small urge of accepting Daenerys’s invitation grew larger than her fears and timidity, and soon she was in her undergarments too, carefully dipping into the refreshing waters. She laughed wholeheartedly, and suddenly she was playing and splashing around. There were two times when she had felt free: when she rode with Robb on his horse, and there, playing with Daenerys. “This is very fun!” Sansa spoke, and Daenerys agreed. After they both got tired, they stood still and enjoyed the lake and its silence.

“When I am queen,” Sansa said, looking at the sky. “I will come and play with you on here every day.”

Daenerys agreed. “And when I am a Lady, I will accept your invitation.”

They both giggled in secrecy, enjoying each other’s company. “I’ve never thought I would do something like this. There is a lake at the Godswood, on Winterfell. But it is always too cold to get in it, and so we would fall ill if we tried.”

Daenerys reflected for a few moments, and then asked. “Is Winterfell as big as King’s Landing?”

“No, it is bigger. But the castle is smaller and less colorful. Papa says it’s strong and can withhold a fight, but there have been no fights.”

“Can I go and visit when you leave?”

Sansa smiled. “Yes! We can ride horses with Robb and sing with my baby brothers. Arya likes to play hide and seek, so we can play, too.”

The galloping of a few horses brought her back to reality, and from the shadows emerged Ser Barristan and Eddard Stark, looking worried sick. Sansa quickly took her dress and hid behind it, while Daenerys tried to get out of the lake.

“Sansa, my sweet girl, what are you doing here?” But Sansa was ashamed of telling him of the puddle accident, and so looked out to Daenerys in help. Eddard noticed the princess beside her in the same condition as his daughter and sighed. “Why are you hiding from everyone? You could have gotten lost, or kidnapped, or…”

“We were taking a bath, since there were no servants available.” Daenerys spoke.

“A bath?” Barristan answered, raising an eyebrow. “In a lake?”

“This lake belongs to The Children of The Forest. They are protecting us from harm.” Sansa said, looking at her father for answers.

“That is nothing but a fairytale. Ser Barristan kindly brought you a clean dress, for Gods, put it and get on my horse. It is late, and we will not cause a scandal.”

Both girls looked at each other and Daenerys started to get dressed. Sansa took the dress from Barristan and thanked him, blushing. _I will get in big trouble, I will, and everyone will make fun of me and say I am not a proper future queen._ After finishing dressing up, her father helped her onto her horse and rode back, leaving Daenerys and Barristan behind. The journey back was silent and awkward, and Sansa felt like crying.

“Sansa.” Eddard said sternly, looking over the road. “This will not happen again, understood?”

Sansa nodded disappointed but did not say anything. She nervously fidgeted with her hands, looking at her lap and trying to hide her blush. A few minutes passed, and her father spoke again:

“Did you have fun?”

The question struck her unexpectedly, leaving her wordless. She looked up at her father, who was looking directly at her. Sansa smiled and giggled.

“Yes, father, a lot.”


	5. Daenerys | Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING ON EPISODE: Physical and verbal abuse.
> 
> I am so sorry for the delay. Things have been hectic regarding COVID-19, and my country's government decided to "start" the holidays on Friday 20th (aka a very weak attempt to quarantine everybody), meaning college work has tripled for me and I believe I'm going to have online classes. I'm afraid things will stay like this for a while, so the updates won't be weekly (hopefully I can squeeze in one, but it is unlikely). Hope you enjoy this chapter, though. :)

**V**  
Daenerys  
Sickness

Rhaenys had woken up sick that morning. Maester Colrin had mentioned a mild stomach poisoning that would resolve itself in a week or less, but the servants whispered that the princess had been poisoned by a northman. Waking up in the middle of the night vomiting, a fever that just wouldn’t quit and stomach pains left Daenerys terrified for her niece—not only because she was afraid that Rhaenys would hurt herself clutching her belly so hard every time she threw up, but because Daenerys had been assigned as her watcher as a punishment for her escapade a few days before.

“But what if it’s contagious, mama? Will I get sick and die, too?” Daenerys spoke angrily. She had not seen lady Sansa since that night, and she was worried about lady Arya too. Will her injury get infected? Can she walk again? Aemon had told her about them, and how lady Arya had been playing all morning in the stables with lord Robb, but he knew nothing about Sansa, and Daenerys was starting to get worried about whether she was punished too, or worse…

“It is not contagious; she will not die, and neither will you. You will clean up her vomit when necessary, dry up her sweat, and bring her water when she asks for it. If it worsens or Rhaenys becomes unresponsive, you will call a servant. But if she stays like now, you will be her maid until she improves her condition, or your brother the king says otherwise.” Rhaella stress had incremented since the North paid their visits; there were black circles under her eyes, she had been eating a little too much for their liking, and her wine drinking habits had gone up to try and alleviate her headaches. _Everything can go wrong_ , Viserys had told her the night before, _and it is the king and mama’s duty to keep it in line._

It was a disgusting piece of work; every hour or so, Rhaenys would wake up from her feverish slumber to throw up a yellow liquid, and afterwards, with her stinky breath, she would ask for a cup of water. But she couldn’t retain that either, and she would throw up again. The maids had been helpful, teaching Daenerys how to empty the container, and giving her a perfumed cloth to try and hide the smell. Twice the morning, Maester Colrin would come inside the chamber to try and feed Rhaenys a orange-colored paste, which Daenerys concluded it was some type of food. The princess would accept it and retain it longer, but the Maester’s worry was not in her food intake, but her fever. After throwing up, she would stay awake a few minutes and speak nonsense—she would ask for Balerion, her missing (and presumed dead) cat, or ask for baby Aegon. But Aegon was not a babe anymore, and the cat was impossible to find. However, once the Maester left, Rhaenys’ had taken Daenerys hand and looked straight into her eyes:

“The murderers are in our castle. Papa needs to make them pay.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“The Starks knew of the order. They knew about Clegane. They did nothing, and now mama is dead. The Martells hate us. They will kill us. They will poison us. They will use their Scorpions on us. Queen Rhaenys died that way, and so will I.” She spoke, tears coming from her eyes. Her expression disintegrated into pure horror, and she clutched her belly again. “Uncle Oberyn will come for papa’s head if he doesn’t pay. I don’t want to die.”

Daenerys looked at her wide-eyed; she had never heard her niece speak that way, with such despair in her voice. She hushed Rhaenys and stroked her cheek reassuringly. “You will not die. My brother won’t let them do that, never in a thousand years.”

“When Arianne marries Viserys, she will kill him on his sleep. And then he will do the same to you, even Aemon. The dragons will die again.”

“Rhaenys, what are you even talking about? Rhaegar wouldn’t let Viserys marry her if he knew she was going to hurt us all. Here, sleep a bit more, you’re hallucinating. You will feel better when you wake up again.” She took the blanket and covered Rhaenys chest with it. The princess kept crying for a few minutes more until the fever crushed her again, and so she slept soundly. Daenerys would be lying if she said she wasn’t afraid of Rhaenys’ words. What if she has dragon dreams? What if she predicts our future? She imagined herself impaled on Oberyn’s spear; choking to death over a cup of juice Arianne had offered her; an arrow stabbed through her chest, having been commanded from a Scorpion on Doran’s orders. But she had never been given a motive to distrust the Martells: her niece was half-one, both a sun and a dragon. And the Martells adored Rhaenys: Arianne and Rhaenys would spend entire afternoons chatting when the Martell princess would come and visit, and Oberyn was kind with every child on the castle, teaching them tricks with the sword and the spear. She hadn’t seen Doran’s face, yet, and people spoke of his disabilities, and his use of wheelchair. _Surely, he cannot do harm in that state, right?_ Plus, Aegon was Elia’s soon—it would not be very wise or kind to kill him. That is not the point of revenge.

A knock threw her off her thoughts, and Rhaegar and Rhaella came in. They told Daenerys that they would take care of the princess for the rest of the afternoon, and she should go and take a bath. _Tomorrow they will make me come back_ , she thought, _I cannot handle this anymore._

She made her way outside the chambers, where she found Viserys. Her brother stood tall and pensive in the frame of an arch, and she approached him.

“Viserys, can I ask you something?” She spoke to him, his face breaking down in disgust after the smell of vomit.

“Gods forbid you do in that state. Go take a damn bath, and then we will talk.”

“This cannot wait any longer.” She whispered and looked around in secrecy. “It is about the Martells.”

Viserys’s face lighted up. If there was something he liked more than dressing in silks and jewels, was talking about the Martells. He said he disliked his bethroted, but every time Arianne traveled to King’s Landing he would act like an idiot—stuttering, blushing and showing off more than normal. Arianne was a class act, and he was not.

“Not here, Dany. Let’s go outside.” And so, they went to the fountain, where enough sound was made to not let anyone hear their talks. It was empty, except for a few ladies and lords, courting each other with shyness and discretion. Every forbidden romance at court went there to meet and talk, and kiss and do things Viserys forbade her to look at. _You’re young and a lady unlike them all_ , he had told her. “What is it, then?”

“I heard Rhaenys say things about her. She told me that they hate us, is it true?”

He scowled. “I wouldn’t doubt it. Those sand-eaters are full of anger and revenge. They’re petty.”

 _I don’t think that’s true._ “She told me that they will kill us all for letting Elia die, and they will come for our heads.”

“I know that. That’s why I warned Rhaenys.”

“Sorry?” Daenerys stopped on her tracks, looking at him. Shocked, she spoke. “You told Rhaenys all that weird stuff?”

“She should know. When I wake up strangled on the bed I share with princess Arianne, then she wouldn’t be as shocked and horrified. Father was right on that one, we shouldn’t trust the dornish. You shouldn’t, either—”

A slap interrupted Viserys mid-sentence, which prompted Daenerys to up her voice and speak. “That is not true! You’re poisoning her mind with lies! You’re the reason she wakes up at night crying! You’re a traitor, and a liar, and a coward, and, and…”

She felt her hair grabbed at full force, which let out a yelp from her part. “Do not speak of me that way! I am a dragon, and dragons breathe fire! You ought not to touch me on such a manner again! Promise on the Gods, promise!”

“No!” She tried to push him away, punching and kicking his stomach. But it was futile; she was smaller in every aspect, and her hair was longer. She couldn’t grab him from any way, and so she started crying. “Let me go!”

“YOU’RE NOT A LADY, YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE NO BETTER THAN THE MARTELLS. YOU SMELL LIKE THEM, YOU ACT LIKE THEM, YOU HAVE NO SHAME—” He grabbed Daenerys by the neck without letting go of her hair and spat on every word he said, putting his hand on her face with such a force he hit her.

“Let her go!” Aemon shouted from the distance, waving a wooden sword. He started beating Viserys with it until someone broke them apart. Daenerys fell to the floor, weeping in horror and pain. She gasped for air, and her scalp felt sensitive and burning. A golden cloak put himself in front of her in a defensive stance until everyone calmed down, and from around came every single courtier to look at the scene, which was horrifying in every aspect: the princess completely disheveled, her nose bleeding from the slap; prince Aemon, kicking the air in pure anger being restrained by Barristan Selmy, and prince Viserys screaming obscenities at her sister. From behind Aemon stood a terrified Robb, still holding his practice sword and a crying Arya, with a small wooden sword. Aegon tried to calm Aemon down, but it was in vain—the boy had his face red, screaming at Viserys who couldn’t stop insulting everybody. The whole picture was warlike, and soon would people name it The Dance of the Small Dragons, in honor of the historic Targaryen civil war. But in this one there were no dragons, big nor small, nor a queen and a king fighting for the throne—there were two siblings in a squabble that had gotten carried away and ended in a fight. _Pathetic_ , Daenerys heard someone said.

She started to feel dizzy and sleepy. She was exhausted and standing near Viserys made her feel sick and scared. “Princess,” the golden cloak spoke. “I will carry you to your chambers, is that alright?”

She nodded; her lids half closed. A last sob came deep from her gut and supported herself on the guard. He carried her to her room, where she would sleep the rest of the day and wake up again next morning, expecting her punishment. _Rhaenys would never hit me_ , she thought, _she can scold me, and throw up on me, and say scary things, but never hit me. Family doesn’t hurt each other._

Once there, she completely forgot—or ignored—her stink of vomit and changed herself into more comfortable clothes. Her bed seemed extra cozy that day, even more secure and protective. “I want to stay here forever. I will never get up.”

But the next day, at the first ray of sunshine on her room, she opened her eyes and saw Rhaegar and Rhaella in front of her, and her heart leapt at the thought of Viserys being behind them. _Please, do not do this. I do not feel like speaking today,_ she thought, _no more, I beg._

“Hope you slept well, sister.” Rhaegar’s voice was warmer than usual, and a faint smile adorned the corners of his mouth. “Are you feeling well today?” She had never noticed, but his face was to start showing wrinkles. His forehead had a few expression marks; his eyes, too. His hair was combed in a loose ponytail that day, unlike others, when he would braid one side carefully and regally. _He looks tired and so do I._

“No.” She answered. Her scalp still felt sensitive to the touch, and her nose hurt. She would close her eyes and remember the scene; the pure humiliation, the anger of Viserys, and the horror filling her body. “I want to sleep.”

“I understand, my sweet child.” Rhaella spoke, stroking her face. “But we came here to ask you what happened.”

Her throat burned just thinking about the events and speaking them into existence. Rhaegar stood up and paced around the room impatiently, his pose exhausted, disheveled. His clothes were plain that day: no dragon on sight, the red muted and hidden. “I apologize on behalf of Viserys. He is not… well, and he will be dealt with appropriately.”

“I do not want to go to his name day. I want to stay here. He is angry at me.” His Name Day would be in a few days—a feast worthy of a king, a joust where the most renowned warriors of the kingdom would participate in, an enormous cake, and dancers and jousters. He would turn sixteen, at last, and finally be able to marry his princess Arianne. _But he loathes her and her family_ , she thought, _how could he?_

“The preparations are ready so we cannot cancel it. However, we will seat you away from him.” Rhaella tidied up her dress and sighed, looking straight into Daenerys’s wary eyes. “Do you want to be seated with lady Sansa, dear?”

It was not the water she had just drank nor the rays of sunshine bringing light back into her body, but the mere mention of her friend who brought her back to life. “Yes, mama.” She tried to sound formal and polite, but her voice betrayed her. Last time she had seen her was that night on the lake, bathing without a care on the world—she had wondered if Sansa was grounded or punished in some way. Hopefully the Starks were not too keen on physical punishment, or else Daenerys would feel guilty forever.

“Very well.” Rhaegar spoke, his tired features accommodating a smile. “However, we still need to know. A few witnesses told us about it, but we need to know from you.”

The burn on her throat returned, and her eyes watered. She looked to her mother, whose eyes were drawn of wrinkles and dark circles. Rhaella took her hand and caressed it, urging her to speak. _I do not want to speak,_ Daenerys muttered, _he will do it again if I do._

The king and his mother sighed and nodded. Slowly, they walked out of the room and left the princess alone. Her scalp was sensitive to the touch, and there was some oil starting to build on her hair. She needed to take a bath—a long, warm and intimate one—or else she would feel dirty. _A dragon is not afraid_ , she reminded herself, _but it needs to rest._

A few minutes later, a small knock came from outside her door, startling her back to reality. Quickly, she grabbed the simplest and comfiest dress she had—a shapeless one, of maroon color and white dragon embroidery on the shoulders—and put it on. It was a tad too big for her, and she suspected it had belonged to Rhaenys once upon a time. “Come in,” she answered, and the door opened slightly. A ginger head poked from it, and two pale hands grabbed the frame.

“Your grace,” Sansa’s voice almost whispered. She was wearing a cornflower blue dress, with embroidered white flowers on the skirt and dark blue lace on the short sleeves. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Lady Sansa,” she froze on the spot and did a small bow. “What brings you to my room, I ask?”

“Your parents said that I could come and see you.” The girl walked into the room, shyly. “I heard about what happened. My brother told me. I am sorry about it.”

Daenerys’s shook her head. “No need to apologize, my lady. Please, sit.” She directed her to the table on the balcony, with views to the city. Sansa walked up with more confidence and sat looking at Daenerys. “If I can ask, did something happen to you a few nights ago? I know it was a bad thing of me to do, and I got carried away.”

“No.” Sansa answered, looking up to the city with wonder. “My father scolded me, but I didn’t get punished. They took me to pray to the godswood at the garden all morning, but I enjoy praying.” She paused and looked at the princess. “I heard about your niece, too. I hope she gets well soon.”

Daenerys nodded. “She will. Maester Colrin says it’s nothing but bad food… or so I think. She has a bit of a fever, but nothing more. What about your sister?”

Something on Sansa’s expression changed, and a sly smile painted on her lips. “She has gotten worse cuts and injuries. That same night she got hurt, she was running and being rowdy again.”

 _That is right_ , thought Daenerys, _she was there when Viserys… when Viserys had attacked me. But she was crying, and not laughing._

“I am glad. Your sister seems fun.” Daenerys smiled cheek to cheek and grabbed Sansa’s hand. “And so are you. I am glad we are friends.”

Sansa smiled back, but her expression changed once again. She brought a small handkerchief to her nose, and quickly nodded. “I am glad too…”

The pure horror on Daenerys’s face shocked both. “I smell like vomit, don’t I?” A nervous laugh came from her throat. “I am deeply sorry! I had to take care of my niece yesterday, and I did not get a chance to take a bath…”

“It is alright, your grace…” Sansa kept her handkerchief. “My brothers often smell of horses, and mud, and pigs, it’s no big deal.”

“Do I smell like horses, mud, and pig, too?” Daenerys brought a hand to her mouth. If the smell of vomit was not enough…

“No!” Sansa quickly composed herself and started to stutter. “I… I mean that this is not a big deal.”

 _Surely, she would be disgusted_ , Daenerys panicked, _she is a proper lady and I am not._ A bottle of rose scent stood on a drawer, and Daenerys took it. “This will not completely cover the smell,” she spoke. “But at least…”

But Sansa had started laughing and could not stop. Her face was red from out of air, and Daenerys stood there, red from embarrassment. “I am sorry, your grace. I don’t know why I am laughing.”

And so, Daenerys smiled, too. She was embarrassed, but worse could it be to become angry with her. She walked to her seat again and looked down to her fingers, shyly. “I am not like this every day, I promise.”

“It is alright, your grace.” Her laugh ceased, and Sansa locked eyes with Daenerys. “I am glad we are friends; I mean it. I’ve never had so much fun with anyone else.”


	6. Sansa | Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! I've temporally disabled anon comments since I've been swarmed with hate from people/nonnies who think this fic is a personal attack against them, which is a really fun sentence to write but not so fun to live it, ha! I will enable them back in the future, but for now I'd like to apologize to the anons who like this fic and would like to comment. I know it's not your fault, and I really appreciate your support. Thank you everybody for the nice comments, stay safe and stay home. 
> 
> PS: this chapter may or may not have weird formatting, as half of it was written from a cellphone! I apologize for any confusion.

**VI**   
**Sansa**   
**Swords**

“Viserys would spend a lot of time with our father,” Daenerys sighed, looking down at her shoes, swinging her legs. “Once, he wanted him to be heir instead of Rhaegar, and so he would groom him to his liking and talk to him. Mama tried to prevent it as much as she could, but Viserys grew paranoid and angry… I do not know much about it, but that is what I have been told.”

  
The mere idea of Robb treating Sansa like Viserys did with Daenerys horrified the girl. Her brothers were gentle—sometimes rowdy, dirty and rude—but never hurtful. Family does not hurt family, she thought, and if they do, they are not family.

  
“Does the king do not do anything? Father would have them beaten if they did that to me or my brothers.”

  
“It is not as easy. He is a prince. Anything done to him by my brother or mama would be a scandal… or so they say. However, if they do, I am scared he will be angrier at me.”  
Sansa reflected for a moment as she looked at the princess. Since she had memory of her life and surroundings, she had been amazed and told about stories and legends and myths of King’s Landing; the magics of the gardens, the mysteries of the ports, the ever-so giggling princesses and ladies and handmaidens, and the handsome and brave men who protected them. You will marry a king, they spoke to her, and you will be his queen. But as she spent more time in the court and with the princess, her desire was less of her to-be royal duties, and more of playing with Daenerys on the lake, giggling with the ladies, dancing at the feasts. Queens do not dance and play and get dirty, they give birth to princes and heirs, and take care of the poor and needed, and… and…

  
“But anyway, at his Name Day we will be seated together, you and I.” Daenerys smiled, biting her lip on excitedness. “We can talk and play and eat together. Aegon will be with you, of course, but we can invite him to play.”

  
She smiled and tidied up her dress. “Yes. But this time we will be more discreet, so we won’t be punished. Can we eat as many cakes as we like?”

  
“Yes, but not too many.” Daenerys whispered, giggling. “Or our bellies will hurt. Our cooks bake many delicious cakes. Blueberry tarts, applecakes, honey cakes…” The princess suddenly came to a stop, her face filling with sadness. Sansa wondered what happened, but as rule of courtesy she did not ask. If someone is sad, they will tell you at ease, and not before, her Lady Mother had told her. But surely, that rule could be broken sometimes…?

  
“Well,” Sansa imagined herself at the feast, eating to her heart’s content. She had tasted lemon cakes once, when visiting her mother’s native lands. She had loved them and ate as much as she could—without being reprimanded for it. The Riverlands were beautiful, with their rivers shining at the sun and moon alike, and everyone had red hair and blue eyes like her. But the castles were of stone, and aside from the natural scenery, there were not many colors. “If we cannot eat them in the feast, we can hide some and then eat them in our chambers, together. In an impromptu tea party, like queens.”

  
Daenerys sadness waned, but she set her gaze on Sansa. Looking through her eyes, the girl could do nothing but blush. “Sorry, am I being inappropriate?”

  
“N-no! Sorry.” Daenerys came back to reality. “It’s just that— now that I think of it, you look like a friend of mine. She had red hair, like you, but hers was darker, and her eyes were of brown. She liked cakes, too.”

  
Sansa thought about it for a second. She knew plenty of ladies who looked like her—her lady Mother looked a lot like her; her aunt, too. A noble girl of name Eleanor of House Mooton who was her playmate back at the River lands had red hair, but green eyes. Lastly, one of the girls who took embroidery lessons with her at Winterfell, Alyssa Ryswell, fit Daenerys’ description of her friend, except Alyssa was craven and sickly. Many nights she would wake up crying, begging for her servants to take her back to The Rills with her mother. She did not go out much; she was afraid of traveling, exploring and meeting new people. Many days Sansa would avoid her company in expectations of not hearing her homesick wails. For this, it couldn’t have been possible for Alyssa to be Daenerys's friend. The girl was afraid of leaving her own chambers—how could she possibly journey all the way to King’s Landing?

  
“Well, I do not know of a single person who does not like cakes.” Sansa giggled, and Daenerys agreed. “Father says he doesn’t enjoy them that much, but at dinner he takes some of them. And mama says he eats them, hiding from everyone.”

  
The princess laughed, sitting close to Sansa. “Your Father does that? I couldn’t imagine that. He looks so serious and lordlike all the time. Does he laugh?”

  
The question almost offended the Stark girl. Of course, her Father laughed, and he did it so plenty of times. When he wasn’t busy with his Noble duties, he would set time to play with her and her siblings. When she was littler, she recalled her father following her around the castle as she ran away from him and giggled in excitement, while he let a hearty laugh as he caught her. As she grew older and she grew out of the more immature games and manners, he would take her to the forests to watch the migrating birds and go for a horse ride, while telling her stories and the seldom joke. But it is true, she thought, he looks like he doesn’t laugh much. But he does, and he loves laughing. Those activities were taken to a halt since arriving to King’s Landing, and the tensions weren’t doing his father a favor. He rarely smiled at others, except for Arya and her sudden endeavors, and Sansa witty comments. She wondered about her Lady Mother, and asked herself if she wasn’t laughing at Winterfell. “He does,” she answered. “But these are stressful times, he says, and he can’t find time to laugh.”

  
Their eyes connected for a second and their happiness faded. These are stressful times, I am to marry Prince Aegon, and the court doesn’t seem happy with that. 

  
“I am sure they will pass.” Daenerys answered, smiling and swinging her legs anxiously. 

  
“Your court doesn’t like us… here.” Sansa recalled a walk in the maze with her septa earlier. Savages, someone spoke, but she couldn’t find who said it. It was real, however, as Septa Morgane took her hand and walked faster. 

  
“It is not about them. Seven hells,” Daenerys whispered as she said that last sentence, in fear of heresy. “It is not about my family, either. It’s about the pact, and the peace. If they like war so much they can go and fight it themselves. I don’t like the court much, if I am honest with you, they criticize me, and then call me pretty when they want me to ask my brother a favor on their behalf. But you are clever, and smart, and pretty.” The princess smiled warmly, looking at Sansa's eyes. The Stark blushed, and smiled shyly. “They will not help but love you.”

  
“And if not,” Sansa straightened her back and lifted her chin, looking at King’s Landing, at her future city, her possible home. “I will make them love me.”

  
The rest of the morning was spent exchanging gossip and anecdotes. Every time one of then giggled prompted the other to giggle; Sansa felt herself bonding with Daenerys as each minute passed, and the thought of marrying Aegon to spend more time made her feel butterflies. “Our children will be best friends, and spend many times with each other, and be like us.” Sansa whispered, and Daenerys nodded. “My boys will train with your boys, and my girls with chat with your girls.”

  
“I would love to see what your children look like. Will they have your red hair, or take after Aegon? Perhaps red hair, and violet eyes? Will they be more like wolves, or breathe fire?”

  
“Both.” Sansa answered confidently. “They will be together all the time. They will be a wolf pack, like my family, but they will be fierce as dragons.” She contemplated the idea herself for a moment, and a thought came to her head. “My firstborn girl I will name Daenerys.”

  
“And my firstborn girl I will name Sansa.” Daenerys answered, and they both giggled in happiness. A knock came from the princess's door, and from it came Queen Mother Rhaella and one of her many handmaidens. Sansa stood up quickly and bowed respectfully, as graceful as she had been taught her entire life. Rhaella bowed back with a slight smile, her violet eyes wary and tired.

  
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but Daenerys has to take a bath. Your father has called for you, too, lady Sansa. My guards will escort you to him, if you please.”

  
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Sansa answered nervously—she hadn’t interacted with the queen so much since she arrived. A few pleasantries here and there; but that morning Queen Rhaella had looked for her, and specifically asked to visit and comfort Daenerys in her chambers. She was excited, of course, and swiftly accepted and complimented the queen in gratefulness. Sansa looked to Daenerys, and they both exchanged a bow as goodbye. A White Cloak was waiting for her outside the room, and as the door closed, she heard Rhaella ask Daenerys a question, but didn’t hear more of it.

  
The White Cloak escorted her to a small getaway in the garden, where her father and King Rhaegar stayed. A small gazebo stood proudly in the middle, intertwined with beautiful flowers and vines, and inside of it was Aegon, mindlessly playing with his fingers.

  
“Sansa, I hope you had a great time with the princess.” Eddard spoke, directing her to the gazebo. There she sat beside Aegon, who was wearing light blue garments and a dragon brooch.

  
“I had, father, thank you.” She directed her gaze to the king. “Your Majesty, this is a gorgeous place.”

  
“I am glad you like it. It was built for ladies like you.” Rhaegar smiled and took a seat in the gazebo; Eddard was next. Aegon offered Sansa a blue rose, which she gleefully accepted. 

  
“Thank you, my prince.” She inspected the rose; it was a Winter Rose. Her face brightened and her smile adorned her cheeks. “I thought they only grew on Winterfell.”

  
“T-they do.” Aegon answered, fidgeting nervously. “B-but now they grow here. There is a greenhouse deep in the gardens, and the gardeners have managed to grow a few. T-they don’t last very long in here, but I hope y-you like it.”

  
Sansa looked to her father, who was smiling warmly. “I brought you here to apologize for the other night's action. I need you to understand this is no easy task, aye, and the tensions between the North and the crown will not… thaw out so fast.”

  
“But our actions were childish and not regal. It would not be appropriate of us to act like squabbling children, while you are playing and laughing with each other as if you were natural allies.” Rhaegar added, his face exhausted and with forming wrinkles. “In a few days, Viserys will celebrate his name day, and so we will formally announce the diplomatic union between the North and the Crown, it will be formally consummated when you both marry under the eyes of the Old Gods and The New. The people of King’s Landing will expect you to appear and wave. You’re the future of the kingdom, and so you will act like it.”

  
Sansa’s stomach fluttered thinking about it. The people at Winterfell knew her well, she had talked to them and even played with some. But King's Landing was completely different—a million of people resided there; from all colors and shapes. The North was populated by northmen, but in King’s Landing resided men from all Westeros and even Essos. She did not know what they thought of her or her family, and she was afraid and uneasy. 

  
“We shall leave you two to talk about this,” Eddard rubbed his nose in anxiety and looked back at the White Cloaks. “You will be under protection, so worry not about anything else.”  
The king and the Lord bowed respectfully and left the garden. A silence looked over the two children, with Aegon looking anywhere else but his betrothed. Sansa played with her Winter Rose intertwined on her hands: father had told her the story about her aunt and the king; how he crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty with a blue rose crown, and the rest of it was known. She did not know if they had loved each other, kissed and hugged—but she knew of Aemon, a healthy and strong child born of Lyanna and Rhaegar, and her mother had told her that the most lovely and plentiful marriages carried the healthiest heirs. But Lyanna and Rhaegar weren’t married as far as anyone knew, Aemon was a legitimized bastard, and Aegon seemed more uncomfortable than hopeful with the idea of marrying Sansa. He was older than her: taller, certainly strong and even a bit handsome; he was skillful with the sword, told many jokes between his friends and was very polite and kind with the ladies at court. He was the prince Old Nan told her about, the prince who is charming and marries the most beautiful lady in the world. But he wasn’t showing much interest in her.

  
And frankly, neither did she. The idea of playing and chatting with Daenerys seemed more appealing, and the more thought she put into it, the more she realized she would love to live in the court as a courtier, having walks in the gardens with the ladies, trying on beautiful silk dresses and staying on a room in the highest tower of the Red Keep, watching the sunset over the sea. His queenly duties seemed far boring: have children, have an heir, please her husband. She did want to have children of her own, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted them so soon.

  
“When you turn thirteen, you will marry me.” Spoke Aegon, his nervousness slowly fading. “That’s what father told me.”

  
Thirteen, Sansa thought. Most highborn ladies married at sixteen, even fifteen. But this alliance was critical, her father had said, and the sooner the better. She was merely seven—in the next six years, she would wear the Targaryen colors on her dress, walking up to the altar and taking Aegon's hand, for him to take her in love. 

  
“I understand. I am excited to be your lady wife, Your Grace.” A stutter came out of her mouth at the sound of the word excited. “I cannot wait for our wedding day.”

  
A sweet smile drew itself on Sansa’s lips, and Aegon retaliated. She imagined herself wearing her wedding dress yet again, and her hair brushed in the traditional Targaryen hairstyles. It was a golden dress with wolf and dragon embroidery, and on her head would stand a golden hairpiece resembling a crown. A wolf and a dragon facing each other, and the Seven-Pointed Star in the middle, in honor to the southern Gods. But it wasn’t the altar part that excited her; it was staying with Daenerys and her ladies on the balcony, talking about each other’s dresses and telling jokes, and eating an assortment of cakes before the wedding. But then my dress wouldn’t fit if I did, she brought herself back to reality.

  
“I gifted you this flower crown, my lady, as my father said it is a symbol of love.” Half of his smile disappeared, and Sansa understood immediately it was about Lyanna. “But I can gift you whichever flower and rose you want. And when we’re married, you will have all these flowers at your hand, whenever you like.”

  
Sansa sure did like flowers, all of them. Back at Winterfell, she would dream of herself napping on a flowerbed on a fresh, sunny day. She would then make flower crowns for her and her handmaids, and wear as many flowers as she could fit on her hair. “Thank you, your grace. You are very kind and thoughtful.” She planted a shy kiss in his cheek, and the boy turned red as a beetroot the moment it touched him. Sansa was embarrassed, too, and truly embarrassed, to worsen things up. But her Lady Mother had told her that a lady’s weapon was her courtesy, and there was nothing more courteous than showing affection for her betrothed.

  
Aegon murmured something incomprehensible, and his face brightened when he saw a familiar figure in the distance: Aemon, hand in hand with little Arya, playing swords with Robb around a fountain. The three of them were using wooden practice swords, with Arya utilizing a stick. 

  
“I am the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch!” Shouted Aemon, lifting his chin and putting his hand on his hips. “No Other shall cross the Wall as I live!”

  
Arya growled in an attempt to mimic an Other and pointed her stick towards him, pretending to be a Walker. Robb pretended to let out a villain laugh and put himself into a defensive stance. “My people will cross the Wall, and winter shall reign forever! No man can stop us!”

  
The boys ran towards each other, his wooden swords clashing together. Arya pounced to Aemon and beat him lightly, causing Aemon to fall to the ground laughing. “No! I shall not be defeated like this! The Seven Kingdoms depend on me!”

  
Arya giggled, still hitting him with her stick and spoke: “The Long Night is coming, my Lord! The Others will reign Westeros now!”

  
The three children laughed uncontrollably until Aemon got up and talked with them. They noticed the couple’s presence, and Arya ran up to her big sister and smiled. “Want to play with us, Sansa?”

  
“I am afraid not, Arya.” She did her best to hide her annoyance, as much as she enjoyed watching them have fun. “Prince Aegon and I are having a chat.”

  
Robb walked up to them with Aemon behind. Her brother gleamed, sporting his usual big smile on his face. His hair was as messy as Arya’s and he had dirt patches on his clothing. Aemon was a bit more tidied up, with a few leaves adorning his garments here and there, but being so close to each other, they would confuse any unknowable person into thinking they’re close siblings. I have Robb's red hair, she thought, but we are nothing alike except for blood. The thought saddened her a little—all the wolf pups, as they called them back at Winterfell, were rowdy, hot-headed, stubborn and willful. They obeyed no one but themselves, and pleased nobody but the Old Gods. Except for Sansa: she was always told she was an excellent lady, a mindful girl, a clever child. That she would grow up to be a beautiful woman, attracting Lords’ attentions and ladies’ jealousy. A passing Lord had commented once that he wished her wife was as ladylike as Sansa, but as to judge by her father’s reaction, it wasn’t a comment she was supposed to receive well, she wondered why. Once in a while, all she wished to do was to rip her silk dresses and run through the woods with Arya, howling like a wolf and rolling around the leaves and dirt. But dirty ladies get no kings, and so she should act like a clean lady. Clean, attentive, modest. 

  
She wished to be part of her family, not only in blood and house, but in spirit. She wondered, then, if her place was with the dragons, but they didn’t like her too much. Perhaps if I pray for silver hair and violet eyes I will belong.

  
“My lady, if I may,” interrupted Aegon, clearing his throat. A gleam of mischievousness showed on his violet eyes. “We can play, if you desire.”

  
Her stomach fluttered again. Play what? She knew of singing, praying, weaving, embroider, dancing and playing the harp. But she knew little to nothing at all of swordsmanship, or duels. Aemon looked at her and handed her his wooden sword.

  
“I can teach you if you desire, lady Sansa. I’m still learning but if Arya can learn to defend herself, then you could too.” Do not trust bastards, her mother had said once referring to Aemon, they’re the fruit of betrayal. But Aemon was kind, and sometimes fun. Daenerys trusted him, too, and he was no bastard anymore. He is a Targaryen but in features, so perhaps her mother’s words did not apply with him, then? 

  
The girl nodded and smiled, tense. “Thank you, my Lord. If it pleases my prince…”

  
“Surely.” Aegon said as he stood up and grabbed a nearby stick. “If we train together, we will get stronger together, and then we will be the most powerful kings Westeros has ever had.”

  
She thought for a moment. A warrior queen. She liked that idea, it reminded her of Visenya Targaryen, even though she liked Rhaenys more.

  
She grabbed Aemon's wooden sword and stood up, walking up to the fountain with her chin up. She wondered if all days in King’s Landing would be like these, and if Daenerys could join her another time.


	7. Daenerys | The Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking this long to update. I have no excuses as I love to write--however, college has officially ended for the summer and I now have slightly more time. Hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**VII**  
**Daenerys**  
**The Feast**

Her mother had scolded her that morning. The dress they had specially tailored for her was ruined, full of mud, and smelling like dog. The red silk that adorned the skirt had turned into brown by chocolate stains, the velvet cape with beautiful gold dragon embroidery was torn into pieces by a band of rowdy cats, and her silver hair was turned into a leafy mess from falling a tree. Her mother had explicitly her forbidden to play before the feast, and yet she could not help herself. Alayne Stokeworth, a cousin of the lord of Stokeworth, had brought her children along with her to come to Viserys’s name day. A few months older than Daenerys, but same as rowdy, they had played hide and seek on the castle’s gardens, and when she realized the mess, it was too late.

For her antics she was then dressed in a plain ruby-red dress, standing out from the rest of her luxurious family. Her hair was done beautifully, indeed, but in contrast to the bland garments it looked out of place.

“It is alright, Daenerys,” Rhaenys tried to console her. “Viserys would be angry if you tried to take the attention away from him, I assure you.”

And it was true. Viserys was adorned in black and red; the scales on his jacket shone of silk, his pants were of a lighter type of chainmail; his boots were of black leather with specks of gold. _He looks ridiculous_ , Aegon had whispered to her, _he chose his outfit himself._ Indeed, it was not the best he had looked, his clothes were what Viserys thought a king should look like. But a point was made with his long, shiny hair braided: he looked like a much younger—and skinnier—version of Rhaegar. With the ruby crown on his head he would easily trick some clueless lords, and perhaps give orders before anyone knowledgeable enough stopped him.

But his stance of superiority and grandeur suddenly crumbed as he saw Arianne. Powerful, graceful and clever—those were the words Daenerys used to describe her. And everyone agreed on that; Arianne was no average princess. Olive skin, dark eyes, dark hair. That afternoon, she wore a lavender silk dress with pearls on her chest. Her necklace particularly stood out: a sun made of molten gold, delicate enough to not draw attention away from her face and clothes, but shiny enough for everyone to appreciate it fully. _She has a wonderful smile_ , Viserys had admitted to Daenerys one night, hiding his red face, _and she will soon be my wife._ She was accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting: a dornish bastard of name Tyene Sand, who was equally beautiful and looked nothing like Arianne, with golden hair and blue eyes; Sylva Santagar, with honeyed curls and freckles adorning her face and bare shoulders; and Jennelyn and Jeyne Fowler, a pair of blonde twins with green eyes. The entourage of ladies complimented Daenerys’s hair and eyes and tried to catch Daenerys’s attention. “Princess, you are as beautiful as the dornish rumors tell.” A smile on her face, Tyene whispered to her. Daenerys’s blushed and thanked her. As Arianne approached Viserys, they bowed to Daenerys and accompanied the princess of Dorne to present themselves to the prince.

The betrothed stood in front of each other and bowed respectfully. _She is pretty_ , Daenerys thought in wonder, _she is what a queen looks like in my dreams._ Viserys took Arianne’s hand and led her to the top of the table, where he was seated to celebrate his name day. Once there, Arianne’s eyes caught themselves in Daenerys, and let a warm smile to her. The young princess blushed and bowed back, clumsily enough to trip a little. But her shyness faded away once she saw the Princess of Dorne laugh at her antics, and she smiled as bright as she could.

“Your Grace,” a sweet, quiet voice was behind her. “Where will we be seated?”

When Daenerys looked behind, Sansa was smiling ear to ear. The Stark lady sported a regal look, looking like one of those princesses her mother had told her tales of. She wore a white velvet dress, with golden lace on the sleeves. On her waist stood a gold velvet belt with pearl details, the same ones she proudly wore on her hair, which was combed into a tight, braided bun. She suddenly felt almost naked—how could she look so plain and boring alongside her friend? Sansa was marrying a king, yes, but Daenerys was her friend. How come there was no royal title for the Queen’s Friend?

“My lady!” The princess exclaimed, bowing respectfully. “You look gorgeous this evening.”

“Your Grace is so kind. I heard about the incident this morning, it is a shame. When I am queen I will make as many dresses as you desire, I promise.”

“Well, mother says it is expensive. You have to pay the tailors, and the fabrics, and the jewels, and…” She suddenly felt sad. Everything had been so expensive, and she had thrown it away. “But I have many dresses. Sometimes I wish most of them weren’t all red. Perhaps you could make me one like yours.”

They both giggled, unaware of the rest of the feast. The girls walked over to their seats and started chatting. A few servants offered them many types of cakes and pastries, and for many hours Daenerys had forgotten her worries and fears.

Eddard Stark and his company were seating a few tables away, conversing shyly with a Summer Isles merchant who whore a very colorful outfit, made of expensive and perfumed fabrics. Sansa had told her that her father was very honest and spoke with lowborns freely, but with noblemen and richmen he was more closed and timider. Rhaegar arrived to his table, dressed like a king should—but sporting no Targaryen colors. Indeed, Rhaegar wore a purple vest with silver embroidery on the sides of his chest. Black leather pants, and black leather boots. For the unknown he would look like an estranged Dayne cousin, but the crown on his head made the royal statement. Eddard stood up and bowed back to the king, exchanging a few words and trying to crack a smile. His northern lords did the same, and suddenly they were all seated together drinking wine. Daenerys felt some weight drop off her shoulders. Hopefully they will get along, and nobody gets angry.

“Your Grace,” Sansa whispered to her, as discrete as a girl her age could be. “Were you alright, a few days ago?”

Daenerys was taken aback. “Yes, of course.” _I think_.

“Well, you see.” Sansa tidied up her dress and looked down, almost timid. “The other day I played with Aegon, and Aemon, and Arya. But you were not there. I was worried, since Aemon said you loved playing swords.”

Daenerys giggled. She could not believe it. “You played swords?”

Sansa's face turned red and frowned. “Well, what about it? It is my duty as a to-be queen to please my people and my betrothed, so they can be happy.”

“You should not be apologizing or making excuses. I do not. I just play. And next time we will do it together, even if we get very dirty.”

Sansa smiled, and pondered for a second. She grabbed a lemon cake from her plate and spoke, playing with the pastry. “It is not that easy. My lady mother says that I should be a lady, always, because I was born one. Arya was born a lady, too, but she plays, and screams, and gets dirty, and Mama only scolds her before she sneaks away again. But I have to sit and embroider and play the harp and recite beautiful poetry. I love music and I love poetry, but I also like riding horses with Robb, and playing hide and seek with little Bran. But I cannot do it as much as I like, because I am going to be queen, and mother says a queen does not get scabs.”

Daenerys felt at a loss of word. Her mother had told her the same, but she had been less insistent. Rhaella loved her, and she did not hesitate to show her affections: she was not deprived of hugs, kisses and nuzzles. In more occasions than one, her Queen Mother had told her she was her little storm, her fierce thunder. On days she would explore the countryside, she would pick an assortment of colorful flowers and bring them to her mother—and her mother would wear them at court, on her hair, on her clothes, on her jewelry. But when she went to the streets of King's Landing, accompanying Ser Barristan and the guards to inspect the walls, she saw little girls and their mothers dancing without a care, rolling in the mud, singing in the rain, and she wished her mother could do that, too. And perhaps she would not be scolded for her torn capes and dirty dresses.

“Yes.” She nodded. “But you are not a queen, yet. We are children, we are supposed to play. Plus, playing swords is necessary. Maybe in the future we need to fight a war and handle a weapon. Queen Visenya was a fighter, a quick and swift one, and everyone respected her and even feared her. A warrior queen … sounds fearsome and beautiful.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a flute, drums and a few violins. On the center of the garden stood a few girls dressed in pink and light blue, with golden leaves on their hair and no shoes. Their skins ranged from all colors; those in the violin had dark skin and golden eyes, and those in the drums had red hair and blue eyes, with their skin extremely pale. The woman in the flute and the singers were blonde, almost gold, but their skin resembled Arianne's the most.

“Who are these?” Asked Sansa in wonder. Her eyes gazed at the ladies in front of her with curiosity and admiration, and when they started to play, she smiled brightly.

“They are called The Weeping Maidens, and they play their instruments beautifully. Some say they are former slaves, freed from the cruel masters of far Essos. But others believe they are sent by The Maiden herself to bring joy to us all.”

“Weeping? Do they play sad songs?”

“If you ask them, yes. But their songs can make even the most serious man cry. Even Viserys has cried to them before.”

Daenerys was five when she had first seen The Weeping Maidens on her mother’s name day. She had danced to their songs with her nephew, and niece, and Aemon and even Viserys, until her cheeks were red and she grasped for air. Later that night they sang a sorrowful song in High Valyrian; many of the attendants did not know the words, but they cried anyway. They said that they were magic, and their instruments were made by The Smith, and that is how they made them all cry.

Aegon approached them timidly, with his hands on its back. “Lady Sansa, you look… graceful and beautiful today.” His words did not stutter the way they had done days before; he was quick and smooth, and his face was less red. Daenerys could not see it directly, but she knew he was fiddling with his hidden hands in nervousness. _He is just a boy_ , Rhaenys had told her, _and he is smitten by lady Sansa._ The princess was seated alongside Arianne, chatting with her as if they saw each other daily. The illness that had spread over her body days before was not there then, but there was a weakness on her movements and expressions. She had still lost some color to the skin, and she was prohibited on indulging on the sweets and pastries, only drinking cranberry juice and eating unseasoned dishes.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I have not seen you since we played on the gardens, and I was looking forward to see you again.”

“Indeed. I had a lot of fun playing with you. Hopefully we can repeat the occasion soon, this time with princess Daenerys and princess Rhaenys.” Sansa offered him the sweetest of her smiles: genuine, bright, enchanting. Daenerys suddenly missed the days when the boy was at its most bashful, stuttering and getting red, and getting angry at Rhaenys’s remarks about his shyness.

“May I … would you … would you like to dance with me?” He removed his gloves in almost a clunky way and lent her a hand. “The Ladies will soon play Dornish songs, very cheerful ones.”

Sansa looked at Daenerys, her cheeks red. The princess smiled and nodded, almost as if she were giving her permission to dance with her nephew—or more likely, giving her nephew permission to dance with _her_ friend. The two betrothed walked gracefully to the middle of the yard and started dancing as smooth as two children could, catching the eyes of onlookers, and stealing sighs from mothers all around. _I know how to dance, too, and I do it well._

She felt a nudge on her arm, and as she stared down, she caught little Arya looking straight at her. Her eyes were scared, and her cheeks were puffed and red. Her light green dress was messed up, and the folds on one of her sleeves were torn down, as if bitten. “What is wrong, my lady?” The northern girl motioned for her to come closer, and whispered in her ear:

“Could you help me?”

Daenerys’s danger instincts sparked. Judging by the appearance of the small girl, she had been in a lot of trouble, but not the usual ones. Not the climbing up trees, nor playing hard, or even rolling in the grass. She looked frightened, almost as if she had seen a dragon charging up at her, or a thief threatening her life. “What happened?” She asked in a low tone of voice, carefully enough to not be noticed.

“There are many suspicious men around here. Some of them have dogs with them. One bit me but I got away before he tried to kill me.”

“What about the guards? Did you not tell them?” She felt something rise inside her. _Did some peasants get into the castle? Did the kennel guards let the dogs free by accident?_

Arya shook her head. “I tried to tell Robb, but he is busy playing with Aemon and all the adults are talking to each other.”

A scream came from behind the pavilion, and the barking of dogs accompanied it. From behind the rose bushes came a few armored men with rusty shields and unknown coat of arms, many of them sporting iron and stone swords; a few had very basic bows, and some had only nothing but chains they were flailing around. The men charged directly at Queen Rhaella, who was quickly defended by the Kingsguard and directed to a safe place. Daenerys was grabbed by the arms by a guard.

“Wait, please! Arya!”

But Arya was then grabbed by Eddard himself with his left arm while he ran away, trying to use his right hand to deflect any instigators with his sword. “Sansa!” He shouted at her daughter, but she was caught in the middle of the disaster, crying of panic. Prince Aegon had a protective arm around her, flailing a mock sword around trying to dissipate whoever tried to come around. A few men approached them and pushed Sansa away, cutting her right eye in the process. She held her hand to her face, crying in agony and pain, drenching her face with blood until a Stark bannerman grabbed her and ran with Eddard. Targaryen soldiers started appearing from the entrance, charging against the men and fighting them in the process. Some guests had been grievously injured; the screams from lady Dyanne Rykker as she held her bleeding stomach pierced the ears of the guests still suck at the mess, and The Weeping Ladies stood in a corner, terrified and trying to defend themselves with their instruments.

“Your Grace, get back!” Shouted a guard, aiming at Viserys. The prince had taken an iron sword from a fallen armored man to try and defend his princess, but Viserys had never been a stellar fighter, and soon he was caught by a dog, bitten by the leg.

“Help!” Shouted Viserys, tears running down his face. “Help me!” It was Rhaegar himself who pushed the dog away, killing it in the process. Daenerys felt like fainting. Soon she found herself inside the castle, wondering about the whereabouts of her friends and family. Inside she found Rhaenys throwing up—perhaps of her illness, or the panic—, while a very disheveled Aemon consoled her from afar. For once in her entire lifetime, she let Aemon hold her and push her hair back as she emptied her stomach. The guards made a protective circle around her, but the screams and the frenzy still were going strong outside. A few soldiers came running beside them, from both Stark and Targaryen allegiance, and after a few minutes only the pleads in pain from the guests and a few shouted orders from the Kingsguard remained.

It had been a disaster, a complete mess. Daenerys worriedly wondered about Sansa, and wished she had looked for Arya a few minutes earlier so she could have stopped the event. She felt bad for Viserys, as mean as he was to her. _He was looking forward to this since the year started._

“Sansa got her eye injured,” commented Daenerys, trembling. “There was a lot of blood coming out of it, and she started screaming.”

“She is going to be alright.” Answered Aemon, tidying up Rhaenys’s dress delicately. His face was full of fear, and Daenerys for a moment pondered on the resemblance he had to Arya. “Our Maesters will soon heal her, if they are already not.”

But she did not believe him as much as she wanted to. Back in the kitchens, one of the women missed one of her eyes as she had been attacked by a stray cat. Or even Balerion’s, Rhaenys’s cat: he missed one eye, too, after getting into a fight. He was agile and quick, but sometimes hit itself into a wall for not seeing properly. She feared for Sansa, and quietly prayed so she would not lose her vision. _Let her see, please, do not let her lose the ability to see all the colors._

“Is lord Robb alright?”

“Yes. He ran away and was under the protection of a Stark bannerman. I hope … no, he is going to be alright.”

Rhaegar walked in after a few minutes, with a few bloodstains adorning his face. Rhaenys ran up to him and hugged him tight, weeping onto his vest as he caressed her hair and whispered comfort to her. The man instructed the guards to patrol the area and interview the kennels. Daenerys walked up to Rhaegar, still trembling, and held his vest. “Is anyone dead?”

“No.” He answered, sighing in exhaustion. “But some of them are grievously wounded. They are being treated as we speak. Your brother is being treated for his leg wound in the courtyard … as for the Starks, and lady Sansa, we will wait for lord Eddard’s input.”

Daenerys felt like he had read her mind. She was worried about Sansa, indeed, but she also prayed for Arya, and Robb, and lord Eddard. She prayed for their safety and wellbeing. “What about mother?”

“She has been escorted to her chambers. Ser Barristan has accompanied her, and she is now safe. She is probably sick worried about us, so let us reassure her, alright?” Rhaegar let Rhaenys go and took Daenerys’s hand, while instructing the remaining soldiers to escort the children to their respective chambers. The journey to Rhaella’s room was long, silent and heavy. “They wanted to kill her.” Whispered Daenerys, as if afraid of letting that thought out in the world. “They charged straight for her.”

“Yes.” Rhaegar’s jaw clenched, and his grip on Daenerys’s hand tightened. “We will be investigating who did this, and who is behind of all of this assassination attempt. I promise.”

The golden door that led to Rhaella’s chamber was slightly open, and when she saw her children, she ran up to them, hugging tightly. “My sweethearts, where is Viserys?”

“He is being treated and is probably now being escorted to his chambers. He will be alright. He only got a dog bite.” Rhaegar answered.

“That is no good. What if the dog had rabies, or the wound gets infected? My poor child. Where is … are the Martells alright? What about Arianne’s entourage? Are the northmen safe?”

“The Martells were quick to flee. As I have been informed, Arianne is in the southeast tower with some of her ladies. She had nothing but a flesh wound from falling glass. The northmen fled to safety, too, and lady Sansa apparently received a quite grave injury on her eye. I had my men to inform me of the situation, and soon we will receive news.”

Rhaella sighed, but the frown on her face persisted. Mother and son exchanged gazes, as if they were talking mind to mind. “This was an attempt on all our lives. This cannot pass as easy.”

“Some of the captured instigators are being questioned as we speak, mother. All of those who need to be brought to justice will be brought to justice. Hopefully, they are nothing but disgruntled former soldiers, and not … not an attempt to disrupt the realm’s peace.”

As much as Rhaegar talked trying to hide his thoughts, Daenerys knew what he meant. He feared people trying to break Sansa’s and Aegon’s betrothal, he feared someone trying to sow dissent between the two houses. He feared the realm bleeding once again, like it once did for him and the now deceased lady Lyanna Stark. Rhaella asked him a few more questions, and then he parted with Daenerys accompanying him. She feared, too, of people hurting her family. More than ever, she wished the dragons had not gone extinct _. I could go and fly to the evil men_ , she thought, _and burn them in their evil houses and protect the kind people from them._ But the last dragon had been as small, weak and ill as a cat, and the likes of Balerion and Meraxes and Vhagar died injured, persecuted or turned to dragonbones. _Now there are only humans like us, who have no wings nor flames to keep peace._

The image of lady Sansa’s blood was well cemented in her mind. Her screams of agony would make a strong ingredient for her nightmares that night, and she would wake up crying and screaming. The dead dog, the ladies bleeding, Viserys being bitten, Arya’s frightened eyes… She had to be strong for all of them, she was going to be a princess, and help Aegon and Sansa rule, and give strong children to Aemon, and protect and care for Rhaella when she got old and wrinkled; she would visit Flea Bottom on King Aegon’s name to feed the poor and bless their children, and would help build septs for people who could not visit the Sept of Baelor. But she could not do it now; now when she was small, and skinny, and dirty. Not when she cried as she saw a dog cry of pain after dying, not as she felt like fainting at the sight of Viserys being injured. And not as she trembled after seeing her brother panted in blood stains.

“Brother, can I ask you for a favor?” The empty halls made her voice echo, and she suddenly felt a surge of determination fill her chest.

“Of course. What is it?”

She looked at him, hugging him and burying her face on his velvet vest. He smelled of wine, blood and mud—and for some reason, ash. _He is a dragon, but what am I?_

“Could you teach me how to fight with a sword? I promise I will train hard.”

Rhaegar giggled. “I do not think mother will allow me to do that. Why would you want to train? Aemon is training hard, so when you and he marry he will protect you of anyone who dares to hurt you. He told me this. You play swords pretty frequently, too.” She knew. Aemon told her that a million times while they played swords and castle sieges, but she was not comforted. She wanted to defend the weak, the unwilling, all the people only one person could not defend. Aegon is going to be king, and I am going to be protector. “Or is there someone else you have in mind?”

They both locked gazes, both weary. Daenerys bit her lip and remembered the blood, the pain and the screams. She swallowed and looked into his indigo eyes, who were always gentle and calm with her. She nodded and spoke:

“I want to protect lady Sansa.”


	8. Sansa | The Silk

**VIII**   
**Sansa**   
**The Silk**

Arya had brought her a harp, which she gleefully started playing. Their father was nowhere on sight, but she clumsily went on. Her fingers moved gracefully, delicately, caressing the strings on the harp as if she had been born to do that. She remembered one of the poems her mother had told her—about a lyseni woman who lived alone in her marble castle—and pretended she was playing her song. She soon imagined herself in a rose garden, surrounded by pleasant aromas, in nothing but a white silk dress and her hair running free. Barefooted, with the cold ground under her feet. The harp went on and on and Arya started singing. Arya had a pretty voice, but used it once in a blue moon. She grabbed a rose from a bush and put it on her hair and started dancing in circles. _This is it_ , she thought, _this is what freedom is._ The sky darkened, and a growl came off from the distance.

Septa Mordane let out a horrified scream, waking up Sansa. The old woman stared at her covering her mouth, but Sansa could not process what she was saying. On a corner stood Arya, crying, and Robb trying to hold her back. “Sansa…” Someone whispered to her. _Father?_ She felt so weak, almost as if she would vanish in a moment. One of her eyes was darkened out, and she soon felt the bandages over it. “Papa, it hurts.” She answered, a faint whisper coming from her mouth.

“You have a fever, my sweetness. Please go back and sleep.” Eddard gave Septa Mordane an accusing gaze while stroking Sansa’s hair. But she was not ready to go back to sleep, her memories came back like a flood. King Aegon… where is he? Is he alright? No, Prince Aegon. She was still her betrothed, and his father was still king. Were they? Princess Daenerys, she remembered her being dragged away, hopefully by one of her brother’s guards. The Princess of Dorne, her ladies-in-waiting, Prince Viserys… she did not know about her fates, and she soon started trembling. Did they die? She felt a sharp pang of pain in her eye.

“I am not tired, papa.” She had not called her father Papa since she was four after a stable boy laughed at her. “I want to see mama.” But Catelyn was not in King’s Landing, nor Winterfell was at a short walk of distance.

“Mama is not here.” Answered Arya between sobs. “We want to see mama.”

“My girls, we will. Soon.” She returned to Sansa. “Once you get a little stronger, we will part to Winterfell.” She felt a struggle on her chest at the thought of that but said nothing. She did not want to leave, yet, but was afraid of being harmed once again. If her daily life ought to be like that once she was off to be queen, if, then she did not want to partake in it. She would rather stay on Winterfell playing with the ladies, chatting with Jeyne Poole, and aiding her mother with her duties. She would not mind the cold nor the snow; sure enough, Winterfell was not deserted of flowers, and their greenhouse was plenty and colorful all year. But her entire life she dreamt of King’s Landing and her soon-to-be crown, and leaving would seem like a waste. “What will happen to … to me?”

“Sweetness, you have been sleeping for days. You are weak and ill now. Sleep now and this will be talked once you regain your strength.” Eddard sighed and commanded his men to leave with the children, leaving Septa Mordane to help with Sansa’s bandages. _She touches me like I am disgusting now._

But once she lifted the bandage Sansa could still not see. It was dark, and the only eye which worked was the left one. Everything seemed shallower and darker; her injury stung and panged at air contact and once the tears started falling from her eyes. “Papa, I cannot see.” Her throat started to hurt, and her eye started burning from her tears. She felt at loss of breath, and once she looked down, she realized she was on her feast dress yet—when there used to be gold and white, now it was painted red. “There is blood everywhere, papa.” She felt like dying, her soul slipping from her body. She felt lightheaded and ill, ready to throw up and faint.

“Sansa, listen to me.” Eddard took her face between his hands and looked at her, sick and worried. “You are going to be alright, please be calm.” But her eye hurt and stung and burned and bled. She held onto his sleeve, crying and screaming for her life. A robed man with chains on his neck came running from the door and grabbed her, trying to make her lay down on the bed.

“My lady of Winterfell, please keep calm.” His soft and sweet voice ringed through her ears, giving her a sensation of serenity. After a few minutes she finally subsided, but her head hurt, and her entire body felt on fire. “That is better, my lady. I am sorry you are going through so much pain. I am Maester Colrin, and I help the king and his family. Today I will help you to feel better, is it alright for you?”

The man was old—almost too old for his own comfort—and walked with a cane. Sansa wondered for a second how he could take care of her with such a weak appearance, but she soon was proven wrong when the Maester swiftly started healing her injury, almost effortlessly, and her eye was protected under clean bandages. “Is this better, my lady? Do you feel any discomfort?”

“It feels better.” She answered as tired as she could sound. “Thank you.” Her lips were dry, and she was sweating; she had never felt as miserable and weak before. Not even when she had caught the shivers, not when she accidentally drank milk of the poppy with Jeyne back at Winterfell. “Will I lose my eye?”

Maester Colrin hesitated a second and showed her a gentle smile, like a grandfather would to their grandchildren. She wished she had met her grandfather. “Are you brave and strong, my lady?”

 _Like a lady in a song_ , her mother said once. “Yes.” The man sighed and placed his concoctions on a table near, his pale hands shaking from old age. “The cut was profound, that is why it hurts much. It will not heal as fast as we hope, but you are young and healthy, and in a few months you will be able to be yourself again … as for your vision, I am deeply and truly sorry, my sweet lady, but I cannot assure you it works again on that eye. We will have you on our nightly prayers and may The Smith repair it.”

Her eye stung again, and tears fell. But they were not as many as before; her entire body ached from exhaustion. She wished, for once, to go back and not attend the feast. Perhaps she would have stayed at Winterfell, with her mama and her siblings, embroidering dresses with Jeyne, playing songs for baby Rickon, braiding Arya’s hair and reading to Bran. Then she would marry a northern boy, perhaps a Karstark or a Manderly—she liked the Manderlys, and their port, and their boats and their sigil. But she also liked Aegon and how gentle he was with her, and how he would give her winter roses, and how would he see her now? … She wanted to use both her eyes, and how could she explain to mother what had happened? _She will never let me out of the castle again and my betrothal to prince Aegon will end._

“Thank you, Maester.” Eddard spoke, his voice slightly broken. The old man bowed and left the room, hunched and slow. Her father put a hand on hers and started stroking it. “It is going to be alright. As soon as you feel better, we will pray on the Godswood and then on the Sept. The Smith is kind and favors children, I have heard.”

She nodded and closed her eyes. She was tired and wanted to sleep, perhaps for a few months. Then she would wake up and everything would be fine again, and she would play with Daenerys and the children in the gardens, and in a few years, she would marry Aegon in a golden dress, with diamonds on her hair and myrish lace on her sleeves, with both her blue eyes staring at the seven pointed star in the glass. _I do not mind the scars,_ she thought, _Papa has many and he looks fine._

The next week she could stand up again on her own, with her fevers gone and the color back on her skin. She was sitting on the balcony’s table, staring at the seas below, thinking of the many ships that left the port. Many of them had foreign sigils—she saw the three-headed God of Braavos in one, and other had the Lion of Night carved in the mast. Many of the dishes served at court had numerous spices from Essos, the most popular being from Qarth, Lys and Pentos. A tailor sent by the queen as a comfort gift for her injuries had made her a pink Yi-Tish silk dress, which shone spectacularly when the light reflected on it. It had quickly become her favorite dress, but only the servants and her family had come to see it, and she was afraid it would become stained with blood. “It is very expensive, is not it?” Whispered septa Mordane before a praying session a few days before, admiring the beautiful fabric and lace. “The Queen is merciful and kind.”

A very faint knock came from her door, with a few hushes from behind. She wondered who it was, and wished for it to be her mother, to come and comfort and hug her pain away. The septa quickly tidied Sansa’s bandages and dress and ran to the door, bowing in courtesy at the sight of princess Daenerys and prince Aegon. The boy held a bouquet of winter roses in one hand and a tiny golden chest in the other, while the girl carried a wooden box delicately wrapped with a lace ribbon. The two entered the room timidly—almost afraid—and paid her courtesies to the little lady. “My lady, we have come to check on you.” Spoke Aegon, blushing profusely. Sansa felt like crying. _Is he afraid to look at my horrible face?_ But Daenerys went ahead of her, and a few tears and sobs came from the silver princess. She let the small box on Sansa’s bed and ran up to her, hugging as tightly as she could. “I am so sorry.” Daenerys sobbed, dampening Sansa’s shoulder. “I am so sorry for leaving you behind. I did not mean to, I was dragged away and, and I …”

“It is alright, your grace.” Sansa returned the hug, crying a little before her eye stung again. “There is nothing to ask forgiveness for.”

“My lady.” Aegon stepped forward, placing the roses on her lap and handing her the golden chest. “I would like to profusely apologize for the events the other day, my father is investigating as hard as he can and will bring the perpetrators to justice. Please …” He stuttered, trying not to look at her bandaged eye. “Please accept these gifts from us, in hopes you will find some comfort.” He gestured to Daenerys to bring forth her wooden box, and the girl dried her tears with her sleeve. Clumsily she walked to the bed and brought Sansa the little box.

“You two are very kind, thank you so much. I will never forget your bravery in defending me, my prince. Someday I wish to return the favor.” Sansa took the golden box from Aegon and opened it. Inside it was a small silver pendant with a wolf’s head carved, with black pearls for eyes. It was simple but luxurious, and reminded her of the stone wolves at the gates of Winterfell. “This is … this is gorgeous, my sweet prince.” She let out a genuine smile and bowed, weak. “Thank you so much, and the flowers too. I will treasure them.”

Next was Daenerys’s gift, delicately wrapped in white lace. The princess handed it to her almost shyly and stepped back. The box contained a violet dress, made of wool and leaf embroidery on the skirt. The top contained a cotton turtleneck under it, and corset-like on top. “For the colder months, lady Sansa, and for Winterfell’s castle. It was made by mama’s personal tailor, too. She says he is at your service whenever you desire.” Sansa looked in wonder at the attire in front of her; that was the dress of a lady no more, but that of a queen. With a golden crown on her head and pearl earrings perhaps the court would kneel at her, but she was too little for that. _Maybe if I arrive at Winterfell on this dress, mama will not be so scared when she sees my eye._

“My princess, this is extraordinarily beautiful. I have no words.” She spoke, her voice breaking a little. “Your kindness is too much for me, I am afraid.”

“No.” Aegon answered abruptly and caught himself, blushing. “I … I mean, we understand that your stay at King’s Landing has been rough and cold, and now you are injured and have been ill, so it is our wish for you to get better soon. Hopefully … hopefully our betrothal is intact.”

Sansa knew she was parting for Winterfell in a week or even less, but she wished she could spend more time on the castle. In her room, only, so she could be protected from all dangers in court. She could play naming all the boats and their sigils from her balcony with Daenerys, and pray in seclusion with Robb and Arya, and let her father tell her tales before falling asleep. _But those are not the duties of a lady, nonetheless a future queen._

“Thank you, your majesties. I will hold these gifts deep to my heart and forever remember your courtesies.” Her eye started itching. “Hope you do not mind my grotesque bandaging.”

“It is alright.” Daenerys chimed in. “Even if you lose … well, it does not matter right now. One of the guards at the northwest tower has a big scar on his eye and it looks incredible, as if he had been at a big battle. Once it heals, you will look like a warrior queen!”

 _A warrior queen with no sight_ , she though but smiled nonetheless. Aegon nodded. “Visenya was a warrior queen and she had many scars, and the court respected her. Daena the Defiant also fought and got plenty of scars. Plus if anyone dares to disrespect you when I am king I will send them away, or if my lady desires …”

“No!” She answered in horror. She would not dare to kill anyone, not even when they spewed rudeness to her. If her father beheaded every man who spoke ill of him or her mother behind their backs, Winterfell would be at a lack of soldiers. _The smallfolk appreciate us_ , he had told her on his way to King’s Landing, _but when winter comes, and their stomachs are empty, no amount of moral comfort satiates their hunger and desperation._ “It is no big deal. I am strong, and if a queen cannot handle the whispers of some then she is no fit for queenship.”

The trio sat together at the balcony, and soon septa Mordane joined them. They began talking about the port and the boats, and began playing to guess where they were from. Sansa spotted a few red priests and priestesses coming from a boat of Pentos before they were quickly detained by a few soldiers. “The R’hllor priests are known for disturbing the masses in the city,” Aegon said. “And when they are spotted, they keep a close eye on them or detain them in their boats. Last time one of them burned a woman alive as sacrifice, and the priestess was hanged on the port.” Sansa felt a shudder rising through her spine, how horrible! “However … when they went to check on her body the next day, she was not there. But a few sailors spoke of a red woman with bruises on her neck and a mischievous smile boarding a ship, chanting the miracles of R’hllor.”

“Was she the same executed priestess?” Asked Sansa. She had heard of the followers of the fire god, and how they handled magic and fire like it was water and bread. Some fearful voices had spoken of miracles made by the red priests in Essos, and how they bring people back from the dead, no matter how gruesome their death was.

Aegon shrugged. “I do not think so. Rhaenys said that some people had stolen her body to keep the rubies and the silk dresses she wore. I believe her.”

“How can you not believe she was resurrected? I believe there is some magic in this world. Dragons were magic, and they existed.” Daenerys almost seemed offended, defending the priestess no matter what. “Imagine if we could resurrect people, too. We would not grieve for the death of our family and friends anymore, for they would be with us forever.”

“Because that is heresy, Dany!” Aegon frowned, crossing his arms. “We pray to the seven-pointed star. We have prayed for Sansa to the Smith and the Maiden, and even the Father so he can bring justice to us all.”

Sansa felt alienated—she believed on the Seven, too, but her father had taught her about the Old Goods, and the weirwoods, and the legends of the Children of the Forest. Was that heresy, too? Would it be wrong in her betrothed eyes to pray below the red leaves of the trees? She spoke sassily: “I pray to the Old Gods, my prince, is that wrong?”

Aegon blushed in a way he had never done before. “That … that is different, my lady. The Old Gods were here before … before us all, and … I- …”

Eddard entered the room, unaware of the three children before him. Once he realized they were there, she soon found himself uncomfortable. The children had been in a heated debate, and the prince’s red face betrayed him. Daenerys was frowning at his nephew, while Sansa stared directly at his eyes. “Children, sorry for interrupting.”

“It is alright, papa.” Sansa spoke proudly, rising her chin. She would not stand for Aegon’s words. _The Old Gods are as gods as the New Gods are._ “Look, they have brought me gifts.”

The tense ambient disappeared soon, with the children soon talking about various topics but religion. Eddard seated himself beside Sansa and sighed. “Your majesties, my child. I am sorry to barge in like this, but I got to give an announcement to Sansa.”

“Sorry, my lord. Must we leave?” Asked Daenerys, standing up.

“It is alright, it is not something you do not know.” Eddard looked at Sansa and smiled. “We will be parting for Winterfell the day after tomorrow, my child. I received a raven this morning, and it seems your siblings are not handling well our departure. Your mother misses you, too.” Sansa crumbled. That had been a very abrupt decision, and she would have wished to have been told way before. “But papa, I do not feel as good as I should have, yet.”

“It is alright. Maester Colrin is preparing some concoctions to make you feel better in our way home, and we have notified Maester Luwin to arrange everything when we arrive.”

“What about mama?”

“She …” Eddard sighed, again. “It is better to not notify her, yet. If we do, she will not rest nor eat until she sees you. It is better for her to see it in person, and we will manage it from there.”

Sansa looked at her friends, who were wide-eyed. Daenerys arched her eyebrows in sorrow, silently asking for her not to leave. Aegon was disappointed, too, but he was better at hiding it. “I am sorry, your majesties. This is my father’s decree.”

The two children bowed and left the room politely, quietly closing the door behind them. She did not want to leave so soon, but if her father said so, it would be done. _My mother needs me, and my brothers miss me_. Arya had liked King’s Landing, too, even after the banquet’s fiasco. “When you are queen,” her father spoke softly. “You will live here.”

“If I am queen.” She answered, her voice broken.

“No, you will. King Rhaegar and I spoke. We have been debating about this affair and its consequences. Next time you come here, we will come with an entourage of guards and knights to protect you. They have captured a few more suspects and are closer than ever in guessing who is behind the attack. Your mother … she may not like our decision, but you will be a queen. An exemplar one, if I may say.”

Sansa looked down her lap and played with the petals of the roses. She would wear the dress Daenerys had gifted her when giving her farewells to the royal family and wear the pendant proudly. Perhaps she could ask for silk bandages, so they would look nice, too?

“It is alright, then. Thank you.” Sansa answered sadly. “But I want to come back as soon as I can.”


	9. Daenerys | Prayers

**IX**   
**Daenerys**   
**Prayers**

For the first time in weeks, she played alone. Back in the secluded garden she was, letting the wind mess with her hair and caress her dress. A lilac one she had chosen, in efforts to appear more like Princess Arianne at the feast, hoping to gain her strength and charm. Sometimes she would hear a voice or two and hide behind the bushes, but when they were gone, she resumed her dance. In a matter of a month it would be her name day, but her northern friends would not be there to celebrate and feast. She was saddened about it, but the entire stay had been full of tension and stress. Her mother had gained a few wrinkles around her forehead by constantly being in a state of worry, and Rhaegar had a few stomach aches which were caused by emotional eating. Rhaenys presumed poisoning was still in the open, but with Viserys apart from her all conspiracies against Dorne were calmed. She felt unjust and cold, as she was the only one who had not suffered any grievous wounds—apart from her fight with Viserys, that is, but unrelated to the diplomatic event—and in turn she felt seen, spied.

The northern bannermen had exchanged a few smiles, tense ones, with her trying to appear friendly and open, but they were suspicious of her nonetheless. “That does not make sense.” She had told Aemon once. “I am but a little girl.”

“But you have dragon blood.”

“And you are half wolf. How come they are suspicious of you, too?”

“The north sees the dragon in me,” he answered sorrowfully. “But the south knows about the wolf.”

“I still do not understand. You look more wolf than … than dragon. You look like my brother in face, but your hair and eyes … they are lady Lyanna's.”

“That is why they don’t like me. They see my dead mother in me. Some butcher at Winterfell once told me that I killed her at birth and took her features in the process.”

_That is horrible,_ Daenerys had answered, but the conversation ended there. Rhaegar once told him that he would be the key in the northern-crown peace, but the northern are stubborn. And now they would leave, leaving the place colder than it was before.

A few steps before her was the Godswood. Small, quiet and sometimes cold. She walked over there in secrecy, scared of alerting anyone, but no one was there. Few were the preachers of the Old Faith in King's Landing, and they normally stood hidden in their homes praying with pieces of dry weirwood they had bought from shady merchant. Maester Colrin had told her the Godswood had been the most visited he had seen when the North arrived, and soon again would remain lifeless and eerie once they left—that not counting the gardeners and quiet bandits. She had always like the weirwoods; they were tall and imposing, with beautiful red leaves and pale, almost snow-like trunks. The carved face bled, which when she was littler she would cry in fear at its sight, but now it made her curious. “Dear Gods,” She kneeled and whispered, unsure of how to pray and pay her respects. She wished she had asked Sansa or Aemon. “I know that I’m not one of your people nor I will ever be. But all I ask is for the Starks safe return to Winterfell. I ask for little Arya's nightmares to end soon, for lord Robb's injuries to heal quickly, and … for Sansa's eyes … no, I wish for her to not feel burdened with her sight loss, and for the wound to heal soon and painlessly. I pray for my nephew to not feel as a stranger between his two worlds, and for the winter that may come soon to be gone quick and not kill anyone.”

A fresh breeze touched her bare arms and rustled the leaves. Sometimes when her brother was feeling sad, he would come and play the harp under the weirwood, reminiscing of his late Lyanna. Perhaps she would never understand why he did that, or for what purpose, but she found the tree and its small lake very peaceful—and sometimes, powerful. She imagined herself as she closed her eyes as a northern lady, with white fox fur adorning her velvet dresses, and the howling wolves singing in the distance. But now she was not alone—Lady Sansa would be beside her, reciting a poem or braiding her hair. _I wish she and I could rule together, our two kingdoms hand in hand._

The sound of someone stepping on dry leaves brought her back to reality. From the bushes appeared her mother, looking tenderly at her and holding a small pouch on her palm. Rhaella wore a pale blue dress, made of simple wool with white embroidery drawing flowers on her chest. Her curls were undone and free, and if it were not for the fact that Daenerys indeed recognized her mother, she would think she was some sort of winter queen or ice princess. “Are you praying, my sweetling?”

Daenerys felt the nervousness rising inside her. _I am a princess of the New Gods, not the Old_. “No.”

“It is alright.” She sat beside her, smiling. “I will not tell Maester Colrin nor the septas. You’re safe with me.”

A moment of silence embraced them both, with Daenerys fiddling with her fingers. “I am sad that the Stark family is leaving. I had fun playing with them.”

“They will be back sooner than later. Sansa is merely seven, and in six years she will wed Aegon.”

“Six years … that is too far away.”

Rhaella hugged Daenerys and stroked her hair. She did not like when her mother did that—not because she hated hugs or hair strokes, but because she always felt like a baby, like crying. Her mother’s touch was powerful but tender, and she had seen even Rhaegar weep when she comforted him. “You are masterful at writing letters. I am sure lady Sansa will love receiving your words.”

“What about Arya, and Robb? Can I write to them, too?”

“Well, yes. Of course you can. You can write to all of them about your life in King’s Landing, and they will write about Winterfell.”

But Daenerys felt uncertain at her words. Viserys was deeply hurt when he found that a Braavosi friend of his did not write his letters—his servants did. It was the first time she had seen Viserys cry of pure betray and sadness, and since then he had been wary of friendships. _Sansa is kind and true to her heart, and so is Arya and Robb, they will not do that … will they?_

“They will not be here for my name day, or the next one. I will not get to dance with them and sing with them and play with them.”

“You have plenty of friends inside the castle, too. They all love you, dear.” Rhaella kissed her forehead and smiled. “The Stokeworth boys, the Velaryon twins, lady Celtigar … the children of the servants adore you, as you have seen, and enjoy your company as you enjoy theirs. You will not be alone.”

She could not help herself as tears streamed down her cheeks, dampening her clothes. For once she did not find comfort in her mother’s words, and wished she did not find herself attached so easily to new people. She wanted her friends at her feast—private feast, in order to avoid another open attack—and let them cut a piece of cake along her. “Sorry.” She whispered, embarrassed of her condition. “I do not mean to.”

Rhaella tightened her hug and kissed her hair. “Can I tell you a story?”

Her sobs came to a halt. That’s true, she loved stories. “About who?”

“About you.” She had come to realize that when she was desolated and inconsolable her mother would find a way to distract her. Daenerys nodded. “When I was in labor at Dragonstone, as the thunders roared and the rains echoed on the walls, the midwife told me you would not survive. I was sickly, and ill, and weak. Your brother was amidst a raging war against spiteful enemies, and Viserys cried all nights calling his name. I was tired, and bleeding, and crying. I could not believe she would tell such a terrible thing. I remember thinking I would have her lashed or beaten.”

Daenerys broke the hug and gasped. “No! You should not do that.”

“And I did not. It was a fiery thought, fed by my pain and angst. But I kept pushing, and praying, and the storm roared on. It was a long night, and then you came out.” Rhaella composed herself, her voice breaking. “You were dead silent. Not a sound came from you, and the midwife stared in horror. I was breathless and afraid, and just when I thought about screaming the silence in the room got interrupted as you wept. Gods, you were loud! You have strong lungs. When a mother gives birth she looks forward to a smile, to see their babes opening their eyes, to touch their face. But you cried, and did not stop crying. And it was not holding you in my arms or seeing the midwifes relieved smiles as you made a sound that comforted me, for it were your tears. I do not want you apologize for crying, it reminds me you are alive, and mine, and healthy.”

Daenerys was confused enough. Her entire life she had received conflicting advice—do not play, that is not for princesses; or do play, for when you grow up you will not get to; do not dance, or you will get tired, but do dance or you will do not look graceful. And now, after being told countless times that she must not cry or she would look disgraced, her own mother told her to please cry, for her. “But what about my royalty?”

“We are mother and daughter standing in front of the gods who made us, the New look upon us as we sit in front of the Old. They did not give us the ability to cry to hide it when we need it the most. You are hurt and sad, and you deserve to weep. It is not alright to cry when things do not go your way, though…”

She blushed. She had cried when the bakers had not baked fruit tarts and when Aemon got to retire early from his studies and not her. _If mama says crying here is alright, then it is alright …_

“Mama, what will you gift me for my name day?”

Rhaella laughed. “Is that what is on your mind now?”

“I just want a specific gift, mama.” Daenerys whispered and Rhaella sighed.

“Alright, what is it?”

The girl tidied her dress, nervously, while she stared at the weirwood. _They are giving me their strength._

“Can I train with the boys and hold wooden swords, like Visenya did when she lived? Or perhaps carry a bow like Daena the Defiant, or use lances and lashes like Arianne's cousins do … I will train hard and diligent, and also be mindful of my princess duties.”

“Rhaegar spoke of this but I brushed it away, thinking it was but a mere whim. Aemon is…”

“Training to protect me once we are married, yes. Everyone has told me that! I am tired of it! But who is going to defend me if he falls ill? Or if our guards plot treason? What am I going to do if our children get lost?” _A one man’s army has never conquered the world,_ Viserys told her one afternoon. Rhaella fell at loss of words. Daenerys expected her answer, even if it meant silence for a few days. She had to give in, she reasoned, for she gave her plenty of truthful reasons. “Lady Sansa likes knights, too. I could impress her by handling a sword and wearing armor.”

Rhaella's eyes hid something Daenerys could not decipher. It was not fear, not anger; perhaps surprise, but her mother’s face remained impassable, like a fortress. The wind rustled the leaves once more before Rhaella sighed again and looked at the tiny lake in from of them, almost shivering from the breeze. “It is getting quite cold, and if the Citadel is correct, we will have winter upon us in a few months. It will not be easy and we shall suffer … hardened times, indeed, require a hardened princess.”

Daenerys face light up, a smile decorating her cheeks. _I will wear Rhaegar's ruby armor and handle Visenya's long lost Dark Sister, and evil people will no longer terrorize Westeros._ Her imagination jumped—the dreams she would have about dueling the great knights of her lands, and how she would be known as the Warrior Princess. Perhaps she could become a Golden Cloak and protect Aegon and Sansa once they were crowned. “I promise I will train hard and early. If I am required to be from sunrise until night, then I must.”

“You will be strongly protected by the Kingsguard, and your nephews shall procure your safety at any given moment. In case you get a disturbing wound, it will be the end of it and we will speak about it no more.”

And so was her excitement, half the court knew about her birthday gift before midday. Holding a tree branch and pretending to be a courteous knight, she played alongside Aemon and Robb, pretending to be the Kingsguard and protecting the people. “Oh, my good Lord, do not leave so soon! These roads are dangerous and muddy, and thieves appear like roaches!” She exclaimed in an exaggerated tone of voice, pointing at Robb.

“My sweet warrior princess, I do appreciate your concerns! However my Winterfell needs me as I need it, and with the Others coming I must ready my men.” He answered back, holding an actual wooden sword. A few older ladies sat around them, giggling and pretending to be damsels in distress. “But when I come back, we shall duel as friends and the kingdom shall know of our glory!”

The rest of the noon was spent as play-pretend, with Daenerys returning to her chambers with a rugged, dirty dress, and a wild spirit. Tomorrow she would pay her farewells to the northern lords, so when they came back, she would wear chainmail dresses and hold a specially carved sword, just for her. On Aegon’s and Sansa’s wedding joust she would participate, knocking down men and snickering lords, earning the favor of their wives. _They will all love me, and then lady Sansa will crown me as her champion._

“Your grace.” A sweet, cunning voice came from her door. Daenerys’s servants helped her to put a clean dress quickly, and one of them opened the door. Princess Arianne stood ever-so elegant, with her curls done into a gracious bun and two strands defining her face. Daenerys felt like blushing—she always felt almost intimidated alongside Arianne—and let her into her room. The Princess of Dorne moved with so much grace and luxury that Daenerys did not understand how she was not chosen for queen of the seven kingdoms. Not that she did not like Sansa, or felt that Viserys was unworthy of Arianne, but the dornish girl is exactly what she thought of a queen when someone asked. “Hope my presence is not bothering you.”

“N-not at all.” She sat at the balcony, inviting Arianne to do the same. “I did not expect you at this time.”

The dornish girl sat on the other side, smiling sweetly looking at the princess in front of her. “Your brother told me all about your training. He was frustrated at first, but he came to like it. I would love to hear all about it, you see. My cousins are experts with their weapons … lashes, spears, swords, knives…” Another knock came from outside the door, and in came Tyene Sand, with her blonde hair and intriguing smile. “Your grace.”

Daenerys’s face lit up. She wanted to know better about the Sand Snakes and their techniques. They were well known all along Westeros, and their names were whispered too in some parts of Essos. Tyene looked the most innocent of the pair, with adorable dimples forming on her cheeks, and her blue eyes as calm as a lake. “Lady Tyene, we last saw each other at the feast.” She managed to mutter as confident as she could, making Tyene laugh.

“Ah, the feast…” Tyene sighed, sitting beside Arianne. “I was praying you would be alright, your grace. And you are. It seems lady Sansa … was the one who suffered the most, did not she?”

“Oh, gods save us.” Arianne exclaimed, surprised. “I thought those were only rumors. Is it true she lost an eye, too? May the Smith repair her cheerfulness, she was such a sweet and lovely child. And the Maid let her keep her innocence.”

“Yes.” Daenerys tidied her dress, sad. “Our Maester is helping her and she is leaving tomorrow. It would mean a lot if you were there to pay her farewells, for her to know she is always welcome with us.”

“Well, of course.” Tyene grabbed Daenerys hand, smiling. “It would not be respectful of us to disappear when they left. What does she like most, jewels or dresses? Oh, but I think there is no time to tailor a dress, I am afraid. Perhaps a beautiful fabric will suffice?”

“I am sure she has other things in mind than fabric. She is hurt and weak, now. A small show of courtesy will suffice to lift up her spirits, but I guess some flowers would do no harm.” Arianne looked at Daenerys. “Your grace, Tyene has heard too about your combat ambitions, and she is here to offer advice. Shall we, cousin?”

Daenerys had heard about Tyene. All the sand snakes sported armor and weapons, but Tyene was the gentlest of them all. _Poison_ , Rhaenys mentioned once, starry eyed, _Tyene uses poison_. Daughter to a septa, but still raised by a viper. Oberyn liked poison, too, but it was Tyene the one who had decided to master that skill by herself. She did not handle swords, or lances, or knives, how could she help her? “Yes.” Daenerys spoke. “Starting next week, I shall train with my nephews to handle a sword and a shield, hopefully you can help me.”

“Well, my other cousins are not here. Obara is the one who handles the swords, and not to boast, but … men are afraid of her. And in turn, they do not hurt the little ones. I heard you want to protect your people, too, and she has lent me some of her wisdom throughout the years.”

Tyene’s hands were soft, warm and delicate. They did not look like the ones who borne rough swords and painful lashes, but ones who embroidered, played harps and picked flowers. She was agile, however, for she had seen Tyene run and jump through the gardens like it was nothing, avoiding guards as if she were in a game. “What do you suggest to me, lady Tyene?”

“Lady Tyene…” She laughed, her dimples adorning her pink cheeks. “I am no lady, my sweet princess. I am but a bastard who was supposed to be in a sept teaching children to read. It does sound pretty, does not it?” She looked at Arianne, playfully. “I do not know of spears, that is true, but my father has raised me well. You will not be queen Visenya after your first training, nor the second, nor the twentieth. Do not get discouraged, my sweet one, but if you are ever in a pinch … snakes do not kill by their teeth, but the poison in them.”

She felt lightheaded all sudden. She had never considered poisoning someone, less doing so in battle. The mere thought made her feel queasy but intrigued. Had Tyene killed someone, on purpose? What for? What events could lead someone so sweet as her in doing so? “I do not think I could do that. I do not think lady Sansa would allow me to do so.”

Arianne raised an eyebrow and straightened her back, curious. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, she is kind and gentle. She believes in peace and mercy, and I do not think she could let me kill someone in such a painful way lest someone hurt her.”

“Do you want to be lady Sansa’s guard, your grace?” Tyene’s smile was hiding something, as her eyes did. Arianne and she looked at each other, knowing of something Daenerys could not decipher. It was the same look mother had, but less confused.

The snake and the princess looked fun, almost amused. Daenerys nodded reluctantly. “Aegon is training so he can become a fighter, but I am scared his kingly duties will not let him protect her at all times. Viserys will inherit Dragonstone, and you will live with him.” She looked at Arianne. “Aemon and I will still live in the castle, and thus we will spend much time with the queen … and king. I could follow her and maybe protect her from dangers. I do not have dragons, but I will handle a sword, and evil people will fear me.”

Tyene laughed innocently. “My sweet princess, you speak of Sansa so lovely, so dearly. Does she speak of you like that, too?”

“She tells me I am gorgeous, and pretty. She compliments my dresses, and thinks my hair and eyes are beautiful. I think she looks like a princess, too, with her auburn hair, and blue eyes, and her stunning dresses … sometimes I wish I looked like her.”

Arianne gave a knowing look to Tyene, supporting her face in her hands. “When I was younger, at the water gardens, there visited us the daughter of a merchant. She was gorgeous, with brown hair and green eyes, and even browner skin. We played together since morning until noon. I was amazed with her, your grace. Your _friendship_ reminds me of her, you see.”

“Did she leave, too?”

“They married her off to a lesser lord, and I saw her seldomly, at distant banquets and silent feasts.” She sighed, but her smile did not wane. “But I still thought she was the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen. Do you think that, too?”

Daenerys thought about it. Sansa was off to marry Aegon, and she was being tutored and fashioned for being a dutiful bride and powerful queen. She did not think weird of her, and sometimes she felt jealous of all the time Aegon got to spend with her. She wanted to spend plenty of time with her, too. “Yes. I do not see why I should think less of her for being betrothed to Aegon, pardon me my lady.”

“Oh no, I am not suggesting that.” Arianne giggled. “At one of those feasts I saw her again and talked once more. She had the warmest hands, you know, and the prettiest smile. I have not seen her since then, but I know she remembers me, and I sure remember her.”

“What did you do?” Daenerys was intrigued. The prospect and thought of seeing Sansa in the future excited her. Older, more mature, and full of stories.

Both Tyene and Arianne giggled, hiding something again from her. She felt frustrated, why were they so secretive? Was that a puzzle, a test? “My sweet princess,” answered Tyene, giving her the most supportive of smiles. “You do not understand now, and maybe not tomorrow. But there will come a time when your heart feels warm, and maybe scared, and then you will remember this moment, and you will return to your senses. And when you meet lady Sansa again, your heart will beat on a different manner. Arianne and I know this, my princess. It is something us both have gone through.”

The next day was cloudy, but no rain was on sight. A cold breeze ran through King’s Landing, compelling the people in the Red Keep to wear their furs and velvets. A grand carriage was waiting the northern lords at the gate, carried by a dozen of horses and guarded by hundreds of men at their sides. To there they walked lord Eddard Stark, wearing the clothes he arrived at King’s Landing with, while Robb hugged Aemon tightly, almost crying. “We expect you in Winterfell soon, my lord.”

“And us in King’s Landing, Robb.”

Arya ran up to Daenerys, hugging her too. “Thank you, princess. I had much fun with you.” Daenerys tried to hold back her tears, but a single drop came off from her eye. “Our hide-and-seeks will not be the same without you, lady Arya.”

Sansa came in, grabbing her septa’s hand. Over her clean bandages she wore a piece of silk, trying to hide her injuries. A few whispers surrounded the curious lords, and some looked away in fear. _Rude, all of you, you are mean, and I will remember this_ , Daenerys thought. Sansa’s walk was still weak, and her skin had yet to recover all its colors. “Your grace.” Sansa stood up in front of Aegon, humiliated by all the attention her eye was receiving. “I will be parting for home, now. Thank you for your hospitality, and hopefully our future will be kinder.”

“My lady.” Aegon answered, holding her hand. “I will be looking forward for the day we meet each other again, and my heart will beat for yours.” Daenerys tried to hold back her laughter. Those were the words Rhaenys had told him to say, because those were the kinds of verses in poems Rhaenys liked. The two siblings liked to pick on each other, him for being timid, her for being over the top, but Rhaenys and Aegon loved each other as siblings do, and helped whenever they could.

“My lady.” Rhaenys interrupted, a sorrow look on her face. “I would like to apologize for being hostile and cold to you. I did not know better, but you have proved to be sweet and kind, and I wish for the best on your travels and duties.”

“No need to apologize, princess Rhaenys. I did not think foul of you once, and I really look up to you.” Rhaenys blushed and bowed, keeping her gaze down. _She is truly embarrassed and flattered._

Sansa walked over to Daenerys, her healthy eye watering. Daenerys bit her lip, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “My lady, I cannot wait to see each other again, when we are more mature and wiser.” But Sansa ran up to her, in her dizzy stance, and hugged her. _Thank you_ , she whispered, _you are my best friend._

“And you are mine, too.” She answered, her voice a thread. “We will write each other letters, talking about our lives, until we see each other again.”

“So be it.” Sansa broke the hug, smiling. By her painful expression, Daenerys knew her eye was stinging. _She is crying_. “Thank you for helping me, and making my days more fun than I thought they could ever be.”

They both bowed to each other; Sansa was wearing the dress Daenerys had gifted her, making her words more powerful. She exchanged a few words with Arianne and her entourage, and walked over to her carriage. Once there, she looked for the last time then at Daenerys, and gave her the sweetest of smiles Daenerys had received from her.


	10. Sansa | The Village

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. My dumbass accidentally deleted the file I was writing this on and I had to start over. Enjoy!

**X**   
**Sansa**   
**The Village**

When the fever ceased, she was let out of the carriage again. The fresh air helped her lift her mood and spirits, and the nearby sound of a river peacefully running along the pasture made her feel at peace. She was never alone, though, for her father or her septa was always alongside her, checking on her bandages or holding her hand at all times. “Lady Sansa, you are going to fall down if you stand up too quickly.” Septa Mordane had been too insistent, too close. She had lashed out a few times on her, and even cried out of anger in front of everyone. Sansa once loved being surrounded by people who told valiant stories and sang sweet songs, but none of them did anymore, and Sansa did not enjoy their company. Her father had tried to punish some men in the entourage who whispered about her and her eye. In a drunkard night, alongside a Karstark soldier and Mormont men, one of them shouted obscenities directed at her to her father: “M’lord, I mean no harm nor disgrace, but your daughter’s eye sure is a sore sight—let us pray to the Smith, and the Old!”

Sansa had not seen that man since the night he had spurted those mean, vile words, but she did not care for him. She cried the entire night until the sun showed its rays through the horizon, and cried once more when she woke up at midday. _Mother will think I am but a beast, and will not see I am her daughter._

She could not know if that sentiment was true. Even at her lowest, her mother had braided her hair, kissed her forehead and caressed her face. But not once she had lost a limb, and lady Catelyn always strived for neatness; always well groomed, dressed and cared for. “Father, does mother know?”

“No.” Eddard sighed, rubbing his eyes. “She will not know until we arrive at Winterfell. She may not like it. In fact, she will not like it at all. But you will be safe, and any anger she might hold she will not lash unto you—she loves you, and you love her.”

“But she loves you, too.”

“Aye. And I love her with all I hold dear. But this was a preventable mistake, and I will forever resent that I could have helped you before that man struck you, and she will not forgive me so easy.”

The flowers who bloomed when they were on their way to King's Landing were now asleep, disappearing, and wilting. The cold winds struck the Riverlands vegetation hard—it had been unexpected, and the Maesters were afraid it was a sign of an early and destructive winter—and so the cattle was dying, and the crops who were to be harvested in a matter of a few months had been affected the most. Sansa prayed for there not be famine, and all the families all over Westeros could prosper and live to see Spring once again. Hopefully her wedding day would be warm and bright, with people laughing and dancing and wearing flowers on their hair, _if_ there was going to be such a wedding.

Her mother had been so adamantly opposed to the betrothal everyone was sure she would vehemently try to cancel it once she saw Sansa's condition. Robb had nothing but flesh sounds, and Arya still had nightmares of people dying and getting hurt. King's Landing had been warm and welcoming—even if it had been a little too cold for her tastes—but it quickly turned sour and unpleasant. Daenerys had tried to assure her it was not common occurrence, and she had never lived something alike, and she believed her. But many whispered that the attack was orchestrated by someone who did not like the union or the peace it would bring, and everyone could no longer pretend they did not believe it.

The man who had harmed her eye was caught and questioned under torture, but he was as clueless as he came. He had been a farmer employed by a few men under the promise of riches and land if he succeeded, but he died of his injuries before he could give more information. Both the torturer and supervisor had been punished for negligence, and nothing else came out of it. Sansa wished she could have had seen him and shown him her eye, spiteful of what he did to her. She wondered if he could have felt guilty, or even if he knew who she was and what she did. _Farmers and alike do not care about the princesses and the queens, m'lady, they care about not starving and seeing their children survive._

They stopped for the afternoon to rest and dine, and so they would continue at first hour. The days merged into each other, and even with Arya’s jokes and games she did not feel amused. She wanted to be held in her mother’s arms and be comforted until night, then she would wake up next morning and find her eye in perfect conditions, as blue and pretty as it had always been. Robb had picked many flowers to comfort her and had learned how to craft flower crowns for her to wear, but they wilted easy and fast. A small glimpse of hope appeared over the distance, in the form of a deer—but it was hunted down by one of her father’s men. As consolation, one of the traveling tailors had offered to make its fur into a cape just for her, but she desired a live deer better, just to appreciate it and pet it.

“There is a local sept made of stones, at a few minutes from here. It is just in front of the river and makes for a wonderful praying session. Let us not lose hope on your eye, my lady, the Smith is known for his miracles, and…”

“I will not go, septa Mordane.” Sansa did not want to face her. She was sick of her face following her everywhere, touching her bandages to rearrange them always. She is no Maester and she is not my mother. “I am tired of praying; it is all I have done since we left King’s Landing.”

“Do not say those words again, my lady.” The septa turned red, both of embarrassment and anger. “The gods always look for you. It is in times like these when you should feel closer to them.

“I am never recovering my eye.” She clenched her fists and raised her voice. She was surely going to be reprimanded for her actions, but she did not care anymore. “I am blind. Whenever you take my bandages off, I see nothing but darkness. It stinks sometimes, and everyone looks and touches me like I am a dying animal. The Smith could not repair my eye, nor he plans on doing so. I am not praying to him.” She stood up and felt dizzy, almost falling. She caught herself on the arch of the carriage, and before Mordane could go behind her she closed the door. She heard her voice outside, pleading for her to open and talk to her, but she was sick of her face, and voice, and hands, and everything. Her father joined septa Mordane a few moments later, and through the door she could hear their conversation.

“Ever since we left King’s Landing, she has been repulsive and combative. I am afraid that dragon princess was but a bad friend.” Mordane spoke in her regular worrying tone of voice.

“She is wounded and afflicted. What she has gone through is no simple bruise or cut. Let me talk to her, and you are dismissed for the day. Thank you, septa.” Eddard joined Sansa in the carriage, finding her with wet cheeks and a swollen eye. _It hurts terribly to cry, but I refuse to be happy now._ “My sweet girl, this is the third time you lash out to Mordane. She is trying to help, and what you spoke of the Gods will not be easily forgotten.”

“Good. I hope she will not bother me once more. She is not my lady mother for her to carry me around as she pleases, and when we arrive to Winterfell, I will let mama know of her actions.”

Eddard sighed, sitting beside her in a very uncomfortable position. The carriage was small, and for men of his height it would mean a very cramped experience. Sansa felt like smiling, but she hid it quick. “Leave your mother some time to breathe, my child. Everyone who has been rude to you has been punished accordingly by me and my servants, no need to drag her into this. Septa is doing no wrong, as I personally picked her to aid and instruct you.”

“She said Daenerys was a bad friend. She was not. She made me feel welcome and warm, and taught me how to play games I did not know, and how to feel free. She does not like her at all, and thus I do not need septa Mordane anymore.”

“Daenerys is wild, aye, that is where the confusion comes from. I enjoyed that you made a friend, and I do think she is a good friend to you. I do not agree on what septa said, and I will let her know what you think of it. But this lashing has got to stop; everyone is worried about you, and you are not like this.”

Sansa pondered about it for a moment but shook her head. She was not tired of septa Mordane, that was true, but she was tired of the constant stares and touches she received from people, unannounced. Am I no lady anymore? Do I not deserve courtesy, then? “People touch and stare like I am a monster, as if I had horns and fangs. They look at me in wonder. Am I no longer Sansa Stark, father? Did I stop being your father?”

Eddard hugged her, caressing her hair. Sansa felt like crying again, but she was exhausted. “No. You will never stop being my daughter. You are my little Sansa, my dear child. No wound or blood will make me think less of you—if I have ever made feel you like that, let me ask for your pardon and hope you can forgive me.”

She had felt like a stranger since abording the carriage at the Red Keep, traveling home. Her father had not deprived her of hugs and warmth, but all the people who once cherished her—the servants who asked her for favors, the lower ladies who had once complimented her and her talents, and the children who had blushed in her presence—now giggled, whispered and talked. She had wondered about Jeyne, and how she could not betray her, but now she was not as sure. Her siblings had been of great help and comfort, and even Arya had told a few jokes to cheer her up, but she felt cold and lonely. _It is merely autumn now, and it shall be colder on winter._

The laughs of Arya, Robb and the servants’ children made her feel sad and lonely. It would have been months since she could go out and play freely, laughing with Robb and bantering with Arya. She no longer could play hide-and-seek with little Bran, nor take care of baby Rickon when her mother was busy. All the freedom and independence she had gained for being the eldest daughter and betrothed to the crown was lost in a simple slash in the eye. _King Rhaegar is just, and rules with an iron hand. He will not let these men get away._

“When my bandages come out and my wounds heal, will my eye be gone?”

“No. Your eye was saved, but we need to take care to avoid infection. You can go out to the lake and the sept, but you cannot run wild. Please take care, as I do for you.”

The next morning the entourage went on its way again. She had tried to eat her breakfast—simple eggs and spiced boar on the side, but she could not. The roads were uneven and muddy, and so her family started to get motion sick. Robb felt humiliated as he threw up outside the carriage’s window and a servant reassured him, stroking his back. “Stop!” He exclaimed to the maid, his face red with embarrassment and tiredness. “I can handle this myself.” Over the distance Sansa could see the figure of a castle, and their banners soon came clear. _House Darry_ , she realized, _the men who helped us on our way._ Her stomach suddenly fluttered as a memory came soon to her head—Rennifer, the one-eyed woman at the inn. She suddenly felt like running by herself at her tavern, smiling at the thought of her. She reflected she would understand her better than anyone else, and perhaps offer some advice. But the Darry’s castle was still many hours away from her inn, and the dangers of the road and its people would eat her before she even had passed the village.

The Darry men welcomed them warmly, offering shelter and food. The castle’s town was unusually busy, as one of the soldiers spoke, as a river a few hours away had overflowed and destroyed a small village on its way. A few were localized inside the Darry’s properties, but some had died on the disaster, and others just simply refused to leave. The village now had fallen home to thieves, rapists and mercenaries, and thus that part of the road was unusable until a near lord took care of the marauders. “Our crops and resources are being stocked for the winter; I am afraid. We sent some soldiers to take care of it, too,” Lord Darry spoke, stroking his beard. “But they came heavily wounded, and some of then did not come back at all. We will need some help of the crown, if it continues to follow its course like this.”

Sansa felt cold and scared. The village was near Rennifer’s inn, did she make it out alive? Was she staying there? She looked around her, hoping to spot the familiar face, and suddenly she did not feel out of place anymore. But the sight of it was horrific, instead, and suddenly she wished she had looked away. A scraggly little girl without a leg, eating a hard piece of bread as she warmed herself around a campfire. Beside her was a small boy, perhaps her brother, sniffling and shivering wrapped in patchy fur. “That little girl came with her mother as a refugee from the nearby village, and she stays here while her mama works as a washerwoman in the castle. She is going to be alright, my lady.” Lord Darry had tried to reassure her, but her stomach kept turning and revolting. The breakfast she had tried to eat that morning was still intact, inside the carriage, and she asked for a near servant to bring it to her.

“It is cold, m’lady. It does not taste good. Let us bring you a warm meal if that is what you desire.”

“It is not for me.” She answered, determined. “It is for them. They have a fire; they can warm it.”

A few minutes later the woman came in, bringing the plate of cold eggs and boar to the children. The little girl took it, her hands shaking, but managed to mutter her gratitude before devouring it. Her brother was feasting on the boar, eating it as if he had not eaten in months, and honestly, he probably had not. A group of other children suddenly approached the siblings, and then a couple of adults were around them, begging and picking on the food. “It is for them,” Sansa tried to mediate, but she felt helpless. “But I can bring you more after lunch.”

The adults stared at her suspiciously, unaware of her status. “I might be dead by lunch, girl.” A man said with a raspy, hurt voice. Her father came in and dragged her along him, shielding her from the oncoming flock of people. “Do not do that again.”

“Why not?” She asked, her eye itching.

“It is dangerous. They could have gone for you if they had the energy to.”

“You were the one who taught me to care of children. They were hungry and cold, so I gave them food.”

“This is different. They are already being cared for. They are scared, lonely, hurt, and cold. They did not see you were a lady, or that you had Darry bannermen around. They saw your food, and how you cared for that girl, and how they saw you did not feed _them_. They are cared for enough.”

_They do not look so_ , she thought, _they look hungry and sad_. She promised herself once again that her reign would be merciful, and that everyone would be so well-fed they would even become fat. Nobles and smallfolk alike, they would eat spices from Pentos in their food, and duck from Braavos at dinner. _But for now, I must endure and help as I can._

The castle was smaller than Winterfell was, and surely even smaller than the Red Keep. It looked like a doll’s house, even, and she suddenly felt trapped. Walking over to her assigned chambers, a hit on her face was the least thing she needed to complete her day. “I am sorry.” She cried of embarrassment, holding on onto her eye bandages. “I did not see this pillar. I am so sorry.” Her father personally escorted her to the chambers and comforted her through the midday, until they were called for lunch. She felt confused and bewildered once she arrived at the table; stacks upon stacks of food for the guests and the hosts, spiced wines delicately served on finest-quality cups, and a mountain of pastries awaiting them at a corner. Not even Viserys’s feasts was as lavish, she thought. Once lord Darry seated himself, he explained that the Stark lords deserved it and more. “Not quite often you see the wolves prancing around the South, I must say.”

Even her father was quite uncomfortable, giving her an unpleased smile as he sat down. Daenerys once told her that she would sneak pastries and small pieces of food so she could feed her friends at the stables, and she thought of doing the same. Many eyes were on her, though, and some of them were too aggressive for her tastes. She was not outside anymore, with blind men and legless children; she once again sat alongside rich, strong men, and their prejudiced stares. Even Arya was quiet, thoughtfully biting her food. Her father responded to lord Darry occasionally, but never on full sentences. His stare was hard, almost angry, and for once in her life Sansa felt afraid of him. His posture was even tenser that the one he had his entire stay at King’s Landing, alongside king Rhaegar.

The meal ended and they were both escorted to the courtyard, a part of the castle that had no refugees. It had a well-groomed garden, with a small lake in the middle and beautiful brushes and shrubs around, colored with small hints of flowers. It reminded her of the lake she had bathed in at one of the first days at the Red Keep. She missed it, and promised her she would ask Daenerys to swim with her again once she went back. Sansa walked over to the lake and took off her boots, refreshing her feet on the cold water. She could still hear the voices of the smallfolk outside; people coughing, children crying. There was no peace around, and she began to feel afraid. A woman, whom she reflected was a maid, came over with a box of bandages and concoctions and began to heal her wound. “Do you prefer silk or lace over it, m’lady?”

Sansa almost forgot to answer. “None, the bandages are alright. Thank you.” The woman gave a short bow and left, leaving her alone. Her father came up to her, sitting beside. He looked tired, tense—in that light, he seemed even pale. Was he getting sick?

“Why did you not ask for something to cover the bandages?”

“I do not need them.”

“You asked for them yesterday, though.”

“Yesterday was other day.” She answered, frustrated. She did not know well, either, but she did not feel like having a conversation. The voices of women outside distracted her, and she felt looking for Rennifer. Perhaps she could sneak out without no one noticing and find her. She would smile, first, greet her. Then she would show her the eye. _Look, it is just like yours._ Then they would laugh about it, and she would make her another wolf biscuit. She thought about embroidering again, a wolf for her. She then would ask for her father to take her in the entourage, making Winterfell her new home; they could build an inn just for her, and visit her to eat bread and soup whenever she would like.

The next morning was colder than the one before, with the leaves rustling and turning brown. She was greeted outside by the stench of the people outside, trembling because of the cold winds and the lack of fires around. The legless girl and her brother were nowhere on sight, and Sansa hoped for a moment they would be safe, inside a warm house. But then again, none of them were safe, nor inside a warm house. Her father saddled her up his horse, and then got up after her. They galloped amongst the people, who either were not paying attention or giving empty stares. For once she did not like to be up on a horse, and wanted to isolate inside the castle for as long as they stayed there. But they were leaving that afternoon, hopefully to take refugee in a near village, afar from the infested one.

On the distance, a washerwoman cursed a cat. Her brawny body was dirty, full of mud; her hair greasy, and her eye missing. _Rennifer,_ she thought, her heart missing a beat, _that is Rennifer!_

She struggled out of the horse, and her movements made her fall on her knees to the ground. She felt them bleeding, coarse and rough, with gravel entering the wound. She limped to her, while her father shouted after her. _He will get angry at me, but I am safe, I am safe with Rennifer._

“Lady Ren!” She shouted, smiling. Her eye itched, and she felt the bandages coming off. “It is me, lady Sansa!”

The woman turned to her, her eyes empty. Sansa stood in front of her, her fingers fidgeting of anticipation and glee. Honey hair, scar in her eye. She looked over at her skirt, an embroidery of a dragonfly roughly patched on it. “Lady Sansa?” Her stare was sorrowful, a void within her eyes. “The wolf girl?”

“Yes, that is me!” She felt her father take her by the shoulders, but she resisted. “I made that dragonfly and gifted it to you. You made me a biscuit. I visited your inn…”

“Sansa, let us go. This is a dangerous place.”

Sansa grabbed Rennifer’s skirt, smiling ear to ear. The woman smiled to Eddard, who suspiciously backed off. She sat down on a nearby barrel, all the attention Sansa had drawn to them dissipating. Sansa pointed to her eye. “Look at my eye, lady Ren. It is the same as yours.”

Rennifer laughed. “Is it?” Her voice was devoid of emotions, despite the smile on her lips. “What happened to you, sweet child?” Sansa felt self-conscious. Why was she not as excited as before? Did she not miss her? Had she not think of her?

“I got cut by a sword at a feast. But I am better now, my family takes care of me and the maesters heal me.”

“I am glad.” She put a rugged towel aside, suddenly lost in thought. Sansa walked up to her, taking up her vision field. She wished to understand why she was so melancholic about, but she did not seem up for conversation. “Are you living in this castle, sweet one?”

“No. I am staying here until noon, then we will part. Maybe there is a village near who will take us for the night, and then in the morning we will leave.”

“There is not.” Rennifer looked at her, her green eyes lost in the landscape. “There are no longer villages around here. They have burned, and its people murdered.”

“What about your tavern, your inn?”

“Gone. Burned.” Her voice was abrupt, scaring off Sansa. “No one lives there anymore, only the ashes and the buried corpse of my niece. I am not sure if it is there anymore. Maybe someone stole it, who knows? If I go back, though, I will not come alive.”

“Sansa.” Her father spoke, taking her by the arm. “Let us go. The entourage is getting ready.”

“I am… sorry.” Sansa spoke, wordless. She felt helpless. Rennifer had burn scars over her arms, up to her neck. “Is there something I can do?”

“No.” Rennifer spoke, mildly annoyed. “Not unless you bring back my customers, and rebuild my tavern. I hope you get better, sweet child. You deserve it. Thank you.” The woman grabbed her hand and squeezed it, losing strength halfway it. Sansa felt like crying—that was not her expected outcome, nor the last. Her father directed her to the horse, and sneaked a silver dragon in the woman’s sleeve, so no one could see and point fingers. Eddard helped her to get on the horse, and both galloped to the entourage to ready themselves.

It were evil men who burned her tavern, and evil men who burned her. They were still on the village, feasting on the ashes and drinking blood from their victims. She felt like throwing up, but she dared not to speak. She did not want to be comforted, she was sick of people touching her and offering condolences. She was not dead, nor she would be. She was angry, and tired, and full of frustration. She felt like running away to the village and slain all the men there; she felt like dragging up the attackers at the feast and imprison them. Sansa had heard stories of the moon door in the Vale, and she wished to throw them all away to fall to the rocks below. She felt her position as queen far away, she wanted to act there. If Daenerys was to train swordmanship, she was to train military strategy. She would lead her armies to the burned villages, plagued by marauders and looters, even if her mother did not approve her. _It is not for her to decide_ , she thought, _I am a wolf and I have wolf teeth_ , _and they will know what my bite feels like._


	11. Daenerys | Fire

**XI**   
**Daenerys**   
**Fire**

She could not breathe, and for a moment she wished she were at her room, alone, staring from the balcony at the city below. Aemon shouted words of encouragement to her, helping handle her wooden sword and helping her posture—but the pillows around her torso and the too thick boots protecting up to her knees restricted her movements. It had been her mother orders to protect her and armor as best as everyone could, and so Daenerys was left looking like a cloud. The boys had tried their best not to laugh, but she had noticed their amused stares and hidden giggles. Humiliated was the word that best described her emotions, followed by discomfort. Not Viserys, not Aegon and not Aemon had used once in their lives the amount of protections she was using, and not Rhaegar, either. But it was the price she had to pay to take her lesson, lest her mother disapprove. The instructor was none but her friend Ser Barristan, and even him had raised an eyebrow in curiosity at her protections. But still she could not understand how a hay dummy could hurt her or attack back; and to make things worse, Rhaella was supervising the whole ordeal. Sitting atop of a small tower, she sometimes shouted orders if someone got too rough or pushed too much. She did not take breaks, either, for her food and snacks were personally delivered to her so she would not leave her post. Daenerys felt like giving up.

“Dany!” Rhaenys exclaimed, appearing from inside the castle with Tyene Sand beside her. “You look… fierce.” She tried to suppress a smile, but Daenerys caught her. Annoyed, the princess let out a sigh and pretended to ignore. I must focus on my posture and strikes. “I am sorry, aunt. I truly did not expect you to look like that.”

“Nobody did.” She answered, coldly. “But when I learn to handle the sword nobody will laugh anymore.”

Tyene smiled. “Indeed.” Daenerys hit the dummy, almost falling on her back by the weight of the pillows. “There is nothing people are more afraid of than a princess who knows her weapons. Shame Arianne never picked a sword, or a dagger… or a whip. The whip suits her.”

Daenerys had thought of handling a whip, too, but the trainers were found only in Dorne or Essos. The idea of daggers was exciting all the same, but her mother found the idea preposterous. Perhaps she would take them in secrecy and use them only for emergency situations. “Sweetness!” Rhaella called up to her, drinking a cup of tea. “Is there something wrong?”

_No_ , she thought. _There has never been something wrong with this_. She decided to ignore her for a moment before turning back and forcing a smile. Aemon walked up to her to adjust her pillows, and Daenerys did not like that. Lashing out on him, the two started to have a discussion. “Stop touching me! I can handle this myself!”

“Your pillows were falling off! Can I not adjust them for your own convenience anymore?” He responded, raising his voice.

“I do not need these pillows, not now or ever. Warriors do not gallop into battle wearing silk and cotton-filled armors, they wear steel or leather! Do not touch me if I do not ask you to!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Daenerys saw Rhaella get off her post and walk to her. She was going to get reprimanded, of course, but the pillows and protections were starting to take a strain to her, and not even the cold breezes could stop her from sweating under them. She hated it.

“I am your betrothed! I am helping and protecting you!”

“I did not ask for any of that!” She put herself into a defensive stance, staring right through Aemon’s eyes. “All you do is laugh at me for being dirty, and then laugh at me for being rowdy, and then for being a lady. Nothing is enough for you.”

“Well, then!” Aemon dropped his sword in a fit of rage, walking away. “Then you can ask your lady Sansa to marry you, since she is the only one you have not lashed to.”

“I might!” She answered, her face seething with rage. She felt the heat fill up her cheeks, burning with rage. Lady Sansa did not spend the days filled with melancholy, nor hiding secrets from her, or laughed at her when she was messy. She was polite, kind and amusing, and unlike Aemon she did not get riled up as quick—not undeservingly, at least. Then, if she married her, Aemon would get envious and jealous and ask for forgiveness; but then it would be too late, for Daenerys and Sansa would be ruling on their own.

Rhaella stood behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I did not approve of your trainings to anger Aemon like this.” She looked straight into Daenerys’s eyes, a disapproving glance on her face. “If this happens even once more, you may resume your embroidery lessons and give up the sword.”

“Will you cover me in cotton armor, too?” She puffed her cheeks and frowned. “Will you cover my fingers with pillows, so I do not stick the needle in them accidentally?”

“A sword is more dangerous than a needle.”

“And even more fun.” Daenerys took a step back and started removing her protections, avoiding looking at her mother. “What is the point of learning to fight if I got to wear this? Thieves and murderers do not care about the pillows, and they do only restrict my movement. Ser Barristan agrees with me, does not he?” She looked up for comfort to her old friend, but he was nowhere to be seen. _He will always be on my mother’s side, will not he?_

Rhaella sighed, calling for a servant to take the pillows away. “Indeed. Next time you will wear a leather armor only, but I will not tolerate this insolence and rudeness. Remember: you are still a princess; a Seven Kingdoms one, at last. Your people have their eyes on you and will be disappointed if you act like this in front of them. Immaturity has no place in a princess.”

_I do not think they care, at all._ The children at the stables were just like her—rowdy, dirty, loud, and playful. Their mothers clapped and laughed as they danced at the offbeat of nearby musicians, and their fathers crafted them dolls and drums to sing along. It was not until the Kingsguard approached that they stopped and acted serious, straight, stiff. It had taken her long to realize they were afraid of them, even of Ser Barristan. No matter how much she told them how kind and trustworthy they were, they would not believe her, and even would scoff. But when she would seat herself on Ser Barristan horse to take her home, all the smiles would disappear from the children; they would not even look at her. She felt terrible but helpless all the same, and when she had decided to sneak once, at the height of the night to return at afternoon, all havoc broke loose. Guards everywhere, the stables defiled, the castle loud and worried. She was found hiding in a smith’s shop, under a table, holding an axe. She was confined to her rooms for weeks, paying for her childish actions. She had asked the bakers to make a wonderful cake to apologize to the affected in her search but was met with cynicism and weird stares. They had eaten it, anyway.

The next few days would be in preparation for her name-day feast, indoors. It would be in the long-forgotten ballroom, now being dusted off and being decorated wonderfully. The tailors had sewn her a black dress with gold embroiders of dragons and leaves, turtlenecked. Her mother had forbidden her to wear it before the feast in fear of it being ruined and dirtied. Daenerys liked dresses—the more ornamental, the better—but sometimes she found them exhausting, restrictive. She had personally asked for a more practical dress, one that would make her look like a general, a commander. And so, the top of the dress looked like a jacket, and the skirts ended just where the ankles started, leaving space to show her black leather boots. For once she would look like the queen of the seven kingdoms, the one who goes to war for her people and battles against their enemies.

“It is okay, Your Grace.” Tyene spoke to Rhaella, breaking the silence. “If you so desire, we can watch princess Daenerys on her training and provide support and protection to her. We know a thing or two about weapons and fighting. In our own little ways, I suppose.”

“Thank you, Tyene. We will see that tomorrow. For now, she must rest and think of what she has done, and then she will apologize to prince Aemon.”

She had no intentions of apologizing to Aemon—not yet, at least. If they would remain silent at her name-day, so be it. She did not care for him, or the way he laughed at her when she had arrived at the courtyard, or the whispers he let into Aegon’s ears as she clumsily hit the dummy with the sword for the first time. “Wait!” Rhaenys spoke, grabbing Daenerys’s sleeve. “Let us accompany her to her room. We desire to talk with her and drink some tea, if it so pleases you, grandmother.”

“You need not to ask permission, sweet one.” Rhaella’s smile warmed, caressing Rhaenys’s hair. “For this one time, yes. If she were to misbehave again, however…”

“It is fine.” Tyene smiled back, tidying up her dress. “We will keep an eye on her.”

The three walked back to Daenerys’s chambers, small talking frequently and greeting the court ladies in their way. Daenerys was impressed by both Tyene’s and Rhaenys’s grace and politeness, and she felt small alongside them. She had learned to bow in a wonderful manner, but they still felt forced and sometimes clumsy. She had not practiced them so much, anyway. She preferred greeting with smiles and pretty words; it made a powerful statement without being too formal.

As they arrived at her room, Rhaenys asked Daenerys’s personal servant to bring them their tea and biscuits, and the princess suddenly felt like an adult. Like her mother’s ladies and friends, who would sit at noon drinking tea, gossiping and… discussing the failures of war and political intrigue at court. She wished to know about the plots and treasons—perhaps one day she would unveil one and catch dissenters on their feet. But until then she had to listen about the most handsome lord, the ladies at court rudest accomplishments, and which dresses are most flattering regarding their eyes’ colors.

“I must tell you something, aunt.” Rhaenys said, looking into Daenerys’s eyes. She did not like how everyone that day seemed to stare into her soul, looking for a piece of it. “Well, me and Tyene, anyways.”

“That is indeed true. However, we… we require some secrecy, your grace.”

She felt the butterflies flutter at her stomach. Rhaenys’s secrets and gossiping were of the best she had ever heard. Unlike any others, they included treason, backstabbing and plotting, but they did not come often. Her niece was incredibly aware of the happenings at court since she was often allowed on the council meetings with Rhaegar. She was being raised, possibly, as spymaster. All the children at the castle were being raised to many areas of expertise; Daenerys suspected her one was diplomacy, even though she dreamed of the fire and blood herself. “It is alright. I can keep many secrets.”

“Those few days when you took care of me and my sickness, I appreciate deeply.” The servant came back running almost, bringing a tray of tea and carefully decorated biscuits. One of them was shaped like a flower. Rhaenys took one. “However, and I need you to tell no one, but that… that was no illness. It was poison.”

Daenerys’s stomach dropped and her appetite was suddenly gone. Her niece was poisoned, and she expected to tell no one? How could that be? She would feel complicit in her murder attempt, and…

“Let her finish, my princess.” Tyene took Daenerys’s hand, reassuring her. “It is not all what it seems.”

“Lady Tyene is helping me, Daenerys.” Rhaenys’s voice was suddenly bright, excited. “She has great knowledge of poison and venoms. She is a snake, after all.”

“She poisoned you?” Her face was full of horror, trying to comprehend the situation before her. “Why would…” Her face returned to Tyene, and she suddenly felt like crying. “Why would you do that for?”

“The skin grows harder the more injuries it gets; the mind strengthens the more you suffer.” Tyene grabbed her cup of tea, blowing on it. “And your body gets used to poison the more you try it. I once did when I was merely a child, now not even the concoctions from the shadowlands can kill me. The life of political intrigue is a dangerous one, and if Rhaenys were to be a spymaster…”

“But she almost died that day!” Daenerys shook her head, crossing her arms. She felt dizzy. “That is a dangerous game, Rhaenys, and my brother will deny you to see Tyene ever again if he finds out. He thinks you were poisoned by an enemy, and so does Viserys. Everyone was sick and worried of you! You hallucinated.”

“I did, indeed. That is what I must subject to. But now I am stronger, and the dangerous drinks Tyene gives me no longer ache my stomach. After the fiasco on Viserys’s feast we can no longer afford to keep weak, Daenerys. They tried to kill grandmother and came for everyone in it. You took the sword; I took the poison.”

She did not feel like eating the adorable biscuits anymore, so she put them aside. “I respect your questionable decisions, niece.” She bit her lip. “But if you were in big danger…”

“She will not.” Tyene sipped her tea, the sweetness of her voice seemed almost like sour candy. “I know what she must take in case of dosing more than intended, and what she must do if something goes wrong. I have gone this path many times. It is rough, scary and very painful, but it is worth it. My father uses it on his spears, and the littlest of my sisters play with most dangerous snakes as if they were baby rattles. Your niece is secure, and she is leading down a path of intrigue.”

The two bid their farewells and returned to their rooms. Daenerys felt sick, but intrigued, nonetheless. She was impressed by Rhaenys, and she finally understood why she looked up at Tyene. If she were honest to herself, she always had seen Rhaenys wielding a spear, like Oberyn, or a lash. Poison seemed almost dull to her character: fiery, quick, burning. But the sun half of her fit exactly with her choice; like the sun itself, it burned slow, painful, and certain.

She walked over to a chest below her bed and opened it. Inside it were many pieces of paper, paints and pretty stones she had found while playing on the gardens and the courtyard. She liked to paint them but seemed frustrated with the lack of skill. It is the quality of the paints, she liked to tell herself, not me. She took a piece of paper and a quill pen, and then a bottle of almost dry ink. She sat herself at the table directed at the balcony and began writing.

_To the sweetest lady of Winterfell,_

_Hopefully you have arrived at your home safe and without risk. I pray daily for your eye and hope it does not cause you trouble. Do not worry if you cannot see with it, Balerion the Cat misses one eye and he is even sharper than he was with it. I have since started my sword lessons, and every time I hit with it in practice, I remember you. You should fear not next time you visit King’s Landing, for I will be there to protect you in case another tries to hurt you. My name-day is near, my dear lady, and I feel sad you will not be here to celebrate it with me. I await the day we see each other soon._

_Your friend and confidant,_

_Princess Daenerys Targaryen._

She was suddenly proud and happy she had asked Maester Colrin for letter writing lessons. She practiced once reading her drafts out loud with Aegon, since he was a most poetic boy, and then with Rhaenys, since she liked Aegon’s poetry—sometimes, at least—, and then with Aemon, and if he did not laugh at her attempts then it would mean she had perfected it. She ran to Colrin’s study, excited and gleeful of her choice of words, but she found Aemon inside it instead. Her utter disappointment did not shy in showing itself, and the boy scoffed while he averted his gaze. “He is not here.” He spoke. “He went out to eat.”

“And what are you doing here, then? Stealing his stuff?”

“No.” He frowned. “I am feeding the ravens.”

She walked up to the cages and gently fed one of the birds a piece of corn. _Storm_ , the nametag at the bottom read. It was Colrin’s favorite raven, claim supported by the fact that it was the plumpest of them all, but agile, nonetheless. “This one delivers the messages the fastest of them all, does ir not?”

“Aye.” He answered coldly. “Why should you care?”

“How long does it take for someone to arrive at Winterfell from here?”

Aemon sighed. “Lady Sansa will get sick of you if you insist on not leaving her at peace. If she requires your friendship, she will ask for it.”

“Silence.” She lashed at him. “Help me to tie this letter to its claws, and hopefully it will deliver my letter to the North safe and sound.”

“I do not think she has arrived yet. I do not remember how much it takes, but it is surely up to a few weeks, even a month.”

“The roads are clear and safe, a traveler from Casterly Rock said so. She surely is arriving soon, true is that.”

“Stop being so stubborn!”

“I would if you stopped being so annoying! Just help me tie it to her claws and liberate it. She knows where the north is.”

The boy begrudgingly stood and walked to the bird. Carefully opening the cage, he tied a strong knot on the raven’s talon and secured the letter on it. “If Maester Colrin gets angry, I will not vouch for you.”

“I plan to take responsibility all by myself.”

“Like you did back at the courtyard?”

She felt her cheeks redden but said nothing. Aemon gestured for the bird to hop onto its arm while opening the window and set her free. Daenerys thought he looked like a Maester himself, gracefully handling the ravens and taking care of them. He seemed oddly attached to all things black, and many times he had asked Rhaegar to send him to the Wall. Rhaegar denied him. “Thank you, Aemon.”

“I would rather receive an apology for how you got angry at me earlier.” He frowned again, crossing his arms. “It was embarrassing.”

“It depends.” She smiled, hiding her hands behind her back playfully. “What will you gift me for my name-day?”

“At this rate of rudeness, nothing. I will throw it into the river to never to be seen again.”

“So you have a gift for me?”

“Barely.”

She giggled and left the room running. She heard Aemon curse at her, but he did not sound so angry anymore. Who was angry, on the other hand, was Maester Colrin, who rightfully scolded her for letting _Storm_ go. She was punished by taking an ice bath, but not even once said Aemon’s implications on her plans. She did not care anymore, for she was the happiest at the palace.

The day of the feast showed itself, and when she arrived at the ballroom a round of applause erupted just for her. Hand in hand with her mother, she suddenly felt overwhelmed by all the attention she was getting. On the tables mountains upon mountains of meals were served warm and ready to be eaten, spiced duck, honeyed boar, roasted peacock and various pastries. She indulged on the sweets at first, an occasion she could enjoy once for her name-day, and then she ate the meat. The adults celebrated on wine, ale, and beer; even Rhaegar started to get tipsy. All the ladies came forward to her seat to greet and congratulate her; the dornish girls all seated around her joked and laughed and sang along with her, and she felt like a queen. Rhaenys invited her to dance, hand in hand with Aegon and Aemon in circles until they felt dizzy. Her mother clapped along the beat and Rhaegar tried the violin but failed by his drunken state. Even Viserys seemed festive, enjoying himself and indulging in wine, his cheeks blushing at the sight of Arianne.

A Velaryon lord arrived from Driftmark with her two teenage daughters, who had brought a small, silver crown with aquamarine stones for Daenerys. She wore it proudly and gloriously, pretending to be the queen. Even her mother addressed her as Her Majesty, and her family played along. For once the day was for her and her only. Three women dressed in silk from Yi Ti danced playing with the flames around them. “They are like dragons!” Daenerys exclaimed, amazed.

“Just like you, my sweet one.” Rhaella kissed her forehead and stood up after the performers ended their routine. “My lords, my ladies. My daughter is profoundly flattered and gleaming that you all came to celebrate her name-day, and on behalf of the Targaryen house we will have a toast for you, and for her.” All the guests raised their cups, some filled with wine, and the children’s ones with juice. “For Princess Daenerys!”

“For Princess Daenerys!”

A cake with multiple layers came forward. She was given a sword to cut it, and excitedly ate the first piece. _Lemons_ , she opened her eyes in surprise, _it has lemon flavor!_

Forward came the guests and their gifts. Many dresses were received that day, but Maester Colrin gifted her a book talking of the gods of Old Valyria. “Shall your ancestry never be forgotten, your grace.” He smiled. Aemon gifted her a pendant shaped with her house’s three headed dragon, and when he put it around her neck the guests sighed after them. _They are adorable_ , a woman said, _such young love!_ Daenerys felt like running away in embarrassment. She was not in love with Aemon; not yesterday, not tomorrow. Rhaenys had given her an ornamental dagger, heavy of steel, and decorated with rubies and pearls. “For your practices, aunt.”

But all the gifts suddenly seemed dull when Rhaegar himself stepped forward, a proud smile on his face. On his hand he held a wooden chest engraved with her name, and almost tripping he walked towards her. He kneeled to be almost at her height and opened it. Her smile grew as she realized what was in front of her and she felt some tears fall from her face. She screamed in glee and hugged her brother, who returned the hug as strong as he could. The chest contained three, almost fossilized dragon eggs in green, white and black. “From Asshai itself, sister. You have the blood of Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys inside you, and such you deserve their dragons.”

She grabbed the black one and held it against her ear, but she heard nothing. They are stone, of course nothing happens. But as she touched the other two, she felt powerful, and imagined herself riding a dragon to battle. Black, like Balerion itself, she thought. How she wished for the dragons to return, in all their glory, and for others to stare in wonder at them. She saw the dancing ladies from Yi Ti in a corner, drinking tea and resting after their fire performance, and an idea came to her head.

_Summerhall was a disaster,_ she thought, _they could not control the fire, but I will._


	12. Sansa | Ice

**XII**   
**Sansa**   
**Ice**

Her heart skipped a beat when she was other Stark banners riding to them in the distance. She grew anxious and excited to see her people again, specially her mother. She had missed the North scenery: white in the mountains, at the distance, and a luscious, cold green under her feet. Her father had allowed to ride his horse alongside him, so she could enjoy the scenery and environment. The water from the rivers grew colder the more they travelled upwards, and when they had arrived to Moat Cailin she felt the so-familiar cold winds she had grown up with, and so they put her in a good mood. She had seen many northern animals arriving closer to her home, but her favorites had been the grey foxes, whose shy but clever beings seemed to appear for only seconds. But the gallops of the contrary Stark bannermen interrupted those thoughts to a halt, and when she saw his father tense Sansa knew something was wrong. “May the Gods have mercy upon us…” He sighed, and she understood things were about to go ways he had not planned.

She had not seen her mother’s red hair since what seemed months. Two, to be exact, but it stayed the same: well groomed, straight, luscious. Back at Winterfell, Catelyn used fragrant oils and creams on Sansa’s hair so it would grow plenty and beautiful, but on King’s Landing it had not been the same way, and so her hair seemed much duller. But her attention on her mother’s hair quickly drifted away when she saw Catelyn’s expression upon seeing her: grief, surprise, anger, melancholy. She understood instantly that it was upon seeing her eye, her little bloody bandages and her dirty, almost greasy hair. She was a mess, indeed, but she did not expect her mother’s reaction to hurt that much. A tear came down from her healthy eye and grabbed her father’s sleeve, tense. She was afraid.

Catelyn got off her horse and ran towards Sansa, whose father helped her get off. Upon being in front of her, Catelyn hugged her as tight as she could and started to weep. _I am sorry_ , she whispered in her ear, _I am deeply and truly sorry_. Sansa did not know what she was apologizing for, but she winced in pain as she held her wounded eye towards her chest. “Mama, you are hurting me.” She ended the hug and held Sansa’s face with her hands, the tears still streaming at full force down her cheeks.

“My sweet girl, my snowflake.” She looked miserable as she stroked Sansa’s cheeks. “What did they do to you? Why would they do that for?” Catelyn looked to Eddard abruptly, her lips forming a straight line of pure anger. “What did you let _them_ do?”

“This would be better if talked back at home, in the privacy of our chambers. The children need not to see, not hear.”

“The children…” Catelyn whispered and stood up, looking for Arya and Robb. “What are they missing, too? Does Arya still have her legs? Does Robb lack a hand?” She was the unhappiest Sansa had ever seen her, and she felt guilty somehow. _If I had been more careful at the feast, perhaps…_ Arya came off Robb’s horse and ran up to Catelyn to hug her, while Robb reluctantly walked towards her. He is scared, too.

“I do not seem to understand why you are here at Moat Cailin. What about Bran, or Rickon? Are they in good hands?” Eddard spoke both anxiously and distressed. The situation was even much worse than when they had arrived first at King’s Landing, with both the dragon and the wolves with problems unresolved. She felt a chill down her back.

“They are. _I_ made sure of that.” Catelyn reached down a small pocket in her skirt and grabbed a piece of paper with the Targaryen seal in it. Sansa felt butterflies flutter in her stomach. _Daenerys?_ “This arrived two weeks ago from King’s Landing. At least it spared me of seeing it without knowing for the first time.”

Eddard grabbed the letter and begrudgingly read it. His mouth tightened and he handed it to Sansa. Still within her mother’s reach, she grabbed it and started analyzing its contents. She had not read many without her eye, and the missing vision made her feel dizzy. _This is Daenerys, indeed._ The letter mentioned her wounded eye, Daenerys’s name-day, and her trainings. She suddenly felt happy amongst the dark atmosphere, and excitement ran through her of thinking on Daenerys becoming a warrior princess. _I hope she is training well._ But it had been that letter that had alerted her mother beforehand, a secret her father had hidden from her to spare any surprises, tensions or stress—something that happened, anyway. It had been that innocent, sweet letter who had brought discord and anger to her family, but she reassured herself she would write to Daenerys, too, and explain the situation. _She is not evil_ , she thought, _she has never been to the North and did not know of distances._

But behind her mother embarrassedly galloped Maester Luwin, whose shy stance proved defeated. “I am sorry, my lord.” His shaky hands grabbed the mount. “I tried to stop her.” It proved the letter was not given from Luwin to Catelyn, but she had somehow got ahold of it. She feared once again the stares she would receive upon arriving at Winterfell and wondered if Jeyne would like to be her friend again. Perhaps if she told her tales of King’s Landing and talked about the court ladies she would be interested. Maybe she could lend her the dresses they had tailored for her. She grabbed the wolf pendant Aegon had gifted her and tried to regain strength. _A wolf is not afraid._

“Mama, did you come all the way from Winterfell?” Arya asked, her big, round eyes showing an innocence she only showed while near Catelyn.

“I did, my little girl. I did it for all of you.”

Robb hugged her, tense, but as soon she hugged back, he started to weep. All his words came out like nonsense mumbles, and soon he stopped crying when he realized all his father’s men were around him, watching. Robb had always wanted to be like his father—strong, with a fair hand, and a respected ruler, and he thought if he cried he would not achieve that.

The road to Winterfell was tense, and Sansa felt like running away from all the stress. But Catelyn had gotten hold of her, not letting her go and supervising her every movement and discomfort. Are you alright, does something hurt? She had her bandages changed three times within the day, just to be sure she would not get infected. The first time her mother saw the scar over her eye, she smiled worriedly. “I thought they would be worse.” Catelyn sighed.

“They were.” She answered.

Catelyn voice lowered, almost whispering. “Why did they do that to you? Did you anger them?”

“No.” Sansa felt frustrated, but she did not want to anger her mother. She had just arrived from King’s Landing, and she had missed her. “Some thieves came down to Viserys’s name-day feast and attacked everyone. I was on their way and cut my eye. But Aegon was very brave and… well, he tried to defend me.”

Catelyn looked at her, indecisive. “What about the other children? Were they mean to you?”

She remembered Rhaenys and her cynicism and coldness, but overall, she was friendly and polite with her. Not that they got to interact much other than formalities and lady talk, but she never insulted her, or spit at her. Even when she was at her most dirty and wounded, _the sun princess,_ as she liked to call her, did not mention it. On her departure she had given her a blue-stone bracelet, who she had saved in a small, silver box. Aemon was kind, too, but she would rather not mention him in front of her mother; and Daenerys, of course, as pleasant as she was, and how much she missed her… _First thing at Winterfell, write a letter_. “No. They were pleasant, and I made a friend in Daenerys Targaryen. She played with me almost every day, from morning until sunset, and she is training to be a _ladyknight_ to protect me, or a warrior.”

“Ladyknight?” Catelyn laughed. “Does that exist?”

“Daenerys will make it exist, then.”

They stopped over a grassy field and started setting up their tents. Their family’s one was the biggest, and inside their beds were set. Sansa laid down on her one and closed her eyes, thinking of the snow back home and how happy she would be once she touched it again. The springs at home, the frozen windows, the sound of the leaves rustling on the northern winds… she was the happiest when thinking of home, and she decided nothing was better than coming back to it after a long trip. She sighed in content. The veil that marked the entrance opened and Robb came after it, looking exhausted, dirty and disheveled. “Where were you?” She asked.

“Hunting.” He growled as he took off his boots. “I caught nothing but a skinny rabbit. Mama was overseeing the hunting and she did not let me go much far or hold the bigger bows.”

Sansa felt guilty. “She is just trying to protect us all.”

Robb scowled. “From what? The bites of rabbits? The jumps of hares? The other lords expect me to become strong and hunt boars, lions and big animals, not starving bunnies.” The girl stood up from bed and bit her lip, looking at Robb as if she had been the one holding him back. Her eye started to itch.

“I will talk to her. I understand she is worried about me but that is no reason to overprotect you.”

A group of servants came inside the tent to set a bath and clean Robb, so Sansa took it as a sign to get out of it. As soon as she set foot outside a cold, autumn breeze caressed her cheeks and she closed her eyes, breathing deep. It smelled of bread, and someone was roasting meat near. On the distance she saw her father giving directions to a group of his men while her mother stood near. The man who prepared her bandages that morning talked to Catelyn. She walked up to them but soon she realized she did not like the atmosphere surrounding them. She had never liked hearing her parents discuss—not that anyone did—, and she was worried they would not love each other anymore. _I would be the one to make them hate each other, it is my fault, it is my fault…_

She felt a tiny push on her back and looked behind. A small, dirty girl around her age profusely apologized to her while kneeling and offered her a small pouch. “Pardon me, m’lady, I did not mean to push you nor harm you. Please take this as a sign of my regret.” _This girl is younger than me, around Arya’s age_ , she thought, _why is she afraid of me_? Sansa shook her head.

“It is alright. You did not hurt me. There is nothing to apologize for.” She remembered her interactions at the Darry’s castle, with the lowborn looking at her with cynicism, almost disgust. She started to realize that, perhaps, they did not like her. Not her as a person, but her as a lady. The men respected her father and mother, and the bakers and stablemen at Winterfell bowed to them as they passed, and were grateful when Eddard invited them for dinner. But outside the north, they were met with hostility and plain coldness, ironically. The noblemen had the duty of kindness and diplomacy, but the lowborn did not—they often expressed their disagreements, and loudly complained when they were hungry, or taxes were raised, or when a lord demanded more than they could provide. Her father had said that even in the north, when the peasants were hungry, their smiles and warmness tended to disappear…

“Sansa!” Shouted her mother. She felt a chill in her spine, but Catelyn’s hopeful eyes cleared any distrust she previously had. She smiled one last time at the girl and walked up to her parents, hoping they would not be as angry and sad anymore. The old man who cured her wounds was smiling warmly, as if he had brought her a gift. _No more scented oils, please_ , she thought, _I am sick of smelling lavender._

Her father was smiling, still, but he looked as stiff as wood. Catelyn gestured for her to sit in a nearby stump while she grabbed something from a velvet pouch. A mirror, she inspected. She tensed her shoulders—she did not like to look at herself and her wound. The times she had, it looked red, tender and horrible; she could not open that eye fully, and she preferred to pretend she could not see because of the bandages over it, not the damage caused. She shook her head and stood up, almost crying. “No, mama, please.” She hid behind her father. “I do not want to look at it. It is ugly.”

“Light of my life,” Catelyn sighed. “Do not be afraid. He has healed you before, and now has decided it is safe for you to take your bandages off. It is not as bad as it seems, I promise.”

“The wound will still be tender and itch, aye.” The man nodded. “It will keep healing until a scar forms, but the risk of infection now is negligible. I say, m’lady, it is hard to lose your eye, and I sure understand it is difficult to see it as it is. But one must become used to it, and scars tell more stories than a clean body.”

She did not want scars, though. Daenerys had written that Balerion the Cat had no eye, but she was no cat. She was a lady of the Winterfell, the upcoming queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. How could she walk up to the altar with a giant scar on her eye? She would knock her head on a pillar she did not notice, ridiculing herself. And when she arrived at Winterfell, she would be eaten by the gossip. She had not felt herself more insecure until then, when the prospect of living with her scar had kicked in. She wanted to write her own stories by her actions, her military commands, her won wars, not by a stupid wound that had left her half-blind. “Sansa.” Eddard interrupted her mental ramblings, slowly stroking her hair. “This is for your good. I know it is hard to watch yourself, but if you find comfort in it: we do not love you less, or think you are ugly. You are our daughter, and if anyone dares to say otherwise, they will not be spared.”

Trembling, she sat again on the stump. She bit her lip so hard her mother called her out for it, but she did not relax. The old man took her bandages almost too carefully, and Catelyn gave her the mirror. She had placed on its back on her lap, and when she was ready, she turned it around and looked straight into it.

A white spot had taken over the majority of her iris and pupil, and the scar went from half her forehead to her cheekbone. It was pink, and tender to the touch. It was also uneven, with the area on her cheekbone being bumpy. _The man who struck me was no good swordsman,_ she thought, _or he would have done a cleaner job_. Her hands were shaking, still, but she was not as disgusted as she thought she would be. She heard her mother call her name, but she felt entranced by her wound. She could not see with that eye anymore, but she still had the other one. Would the Smith be kind to her, and bring her no eye blurriness on her healthy one. She could get used to her life that way, but she was terrified of it, nonetheless. _What eyeless lady has songs about her?_

“It is not that bad.” She sighed, defeated. “Thank you for healing me.” She smiled at the old man, who was disposing of her bandages.

“Jorrel, m’lady.” He answered, smiling back. “My name is Jorrel, and I work at the nearby village as healer. It is my pleasure to have helped you.”

The man respectfully bowed to the Starks and left, disappearing and blending into the entourage and villagers. She felt sad and thought she would never see him again unless she traveled once again to Moat Cailin, and that is an if…

Arya joined them shortly after, looking in wonder at Sansa’s scar. Embarrassed, she tried to push away her sister, but Arya smiled. “A warrior princess!” Arya exclaimed, laughing. “Like Daenerys!” A glimpse of confidence formed inside her, but she shook her head. “I am no warrior, nor princess. This is a wound made by evil men.”

“Evil men who fought against you, such is the life of a warrior.” Arya answered. “We should play swords soon, like we did at King’s Landing.”

“My sight is no longer good, I am afraid. I would get hit and lose time after time, and that is no fun.”

“I could pretend to lose.”

“What is the point, then? You are better than me, and Robb is even more. That would make no sense.”

The way to Winterfell was a tedious one. The more North they went, the more snow they saw. The mountains were dressed in white at their peak, and the southern people who walked along had to be put in carriages as some started to get frostbite. Others, however, stayed in villages to start their new lives there, and when they had arrived at the castle their entourage was much smaller as it originally had been. She put a big, warm cape over herself as she heard the horns of their arrival near her. The gates opened and their carriage stopped inside the courtyard.

“House Stark has arrived!” Shouted a soldier at the top of its lungs. His father got out of the carriage first and helped her mother to do the same; Arya jumped off it, and Robb gracefully stepped out. Sansa was insecure, however, but she made it out. Outside, she saw the wives of the lords who had travelled with them—the Mormont women, lady Manderly, lady Karstark, lord Umber’s daughters… they all approached their husbands and fathers in a comely manner, and Sansa could not help but smile. Out of the distance, atop of a tower, a boy shouted in a gleeful manner. “Mama! Papa! Sansa! Arya! Look at me! Robb!”

Bran waved out of his room, being held back by a servant afraid of him falling. Rickon drank off a wetnurse’s breast, unaware of his surroundings. Bran ran off the window and, in a few seconds, he was in front of his mother, hugging her. Eddard grabbed him and started tossing him in the air, laughing along. “You grew taller while I was not around, eh?”

Rickon’s wetnurse arrived with him holding onto her teat, but at the sight of his parents he stopped suckling and gestured to be carried by his mother. Catelyn grabbed him and started caressing his cheeks, completely oblivious to anything else. _He will grow to be mama’s little boy_ , Sansa thought.

“M’lady of Stark.” A woman walked to her, smiling. She recognized her instantly by her grey, matted hair and crooked teeth, whose fangs looked almost those of a bear. Sansa bowed.

“Lady Mormont, I am glad you are safe and healthy, and…” She noticed the stares around her, focused on her. My eye, she thought, they are looking at my eye. Her nervousness started to show and her words started to stutter. “I am… I am sorry, lady Maege, I…”

Maege laughed. “What are you nervous about, sweet girl? All those staring at you can kindly burn in the seven hells if they may.” The peasants who were staring at Sansa quickly looked away as to not wake the wrath of the She-Bear of Mormont, and the Stark girl soon feel protected under her. “But I should say, and maybe I am biased, but that scar looks damned good on you.”

“How so?” She asked. “I lost my eye.”

“Aye. And all my daughters have almost lost an eye, or a finger, or a hand! Even the littlest one, Lyanna. That one is merely a babe, but the Old Gods have graced her with a strong body, and all her wetnurses fear her.” She let out a horselaugh, looking over at her daughters. “It is almost a rite of passage in Bear Island to get a nasty scar, I tell you.” She crouched and whispered. “When your mama got the news of your wounds she started screaming, and crying. But let me tell you something, lady Stark: no northern lady can be considered proper without a big scar. Your sister Arya got her knees calloused already, and her hands full of swords cuts. She is no less northern, if anything… she is a wild one, aye.”

“But I am to marry prince Aegon, not a northern man.”

“And that is a shame.” She stood up, walking to Catelyn. “But he has to attain himself to the consequences of the northern women. You are no bird, you are a wolf.”

 _I am no bird, I am a wolf_. She bit her lip and smiled—a cheek to cheek one, and she felt almost weird on doing so. She looked around and saw the other northern women—big, tall, brawny, with calloused hands and broken noses; their voices louder than a wolf’s howl, and more commanding than any warrior king. _I am not much different_ , she thought, _ice runs through their veins and so do mine._

As the hours passed she went to her chambers. A small table, lit by a weak candle had a piece of paper on it. She grabbed the ink near and started writing. The letter took her a while, since the lack of vision in her eye and the low light made difficult to write, and gave her headaches.

_To the most pretty princess Daenerys,_

_Your letter arrived too early, I am afraid. My mother read it before she knew I was wounded, and she greeted me not the happiest. I am better now, and my eye is healing. I no longer must wear the bandages; the eye has a white spot in it, and the scar is big, but I am no longer terrified of it. Many women in the north have scars, and wear them proudly. I have no sight, but others are kind and help me. Please tell prince Aegon of me, and how brave I am. Next time I should go to King’s Landing, no one will try to harm me, for I will be stronger and determined. And you will protect me, too, I hope. I wish to see you soon strike valiantly with the sword, and sing songs about your talent._

_Your best friend,_

_Lady Sansa of House Stark._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank all of you for your support. It is only two chapters before we delve into their teenager years and how they handle and explore their feelings. I am very excited to write those chapters--just a quick heads up, the next ones will include a bit of homophobia (nothing too strong, I don't like writing that stuff lol I already experience it irl why would I write it in here). Mostly conversations, nothing physical. So if you don't like reading about them, well... I suppose I shouldn't tell you to stop reading and resume when the homophobia stops because you would miss a lot of stuff, but I am leaving a warning nonetheless so you can decide what to do. Am I being too dramatic? Maybe, but I wouldn't like to trigger somebody with heavy topics. Anyway, thanks again! Take care and stay safe <3


	13. Daenerys | The Sound of Fire

**XIII**  
**Daenerys**  
**The Sound of Fire**

She spent the entire afternoon crying, and not even her mother could comfort her. Rhaenys and the dornishgirls had come to drink tea and gossip to try to lift her spirits, but she immediately refused. She had lost her appetite and refused to take baths—she even had missed her sword lessons. She could not believe, not even for a second, that she had lost the three dragon eggs Rhaegar had gifted her. At first, she thought a thief had entered the castle and stole them, since the rumor of the eggs had spread throughout all the Red Keep and the nearest peasant settlements, and Rhaella had Daenerys’s servants questioned under threat of dismissal if they did not comply, but not a single soul knew about the gift. Aemon, the most expert one in the tunnels and secrets of the Red Keep, had searched from basement to tower for them to no avail; Rhaenys had questioned the other ladies at court in form of gossip and chats, and even Aegon was complicit in the search. Viserys had tried to keep his cool, indeed, but even him was sickly worried about the whereabout of the eggs, and Rhaegar was nowhere to be found since he was absorbed into his kingly duties. Daenerys felt like disappearing.

She liked to keep them beside her bed, in the night table. At candlelight, they looked powerful, imperial, magical. She had tried, only once, to lit them to see what happened, and if three tiny dragons would come out of them, but the only outcome that happened was that they got too hot and burned a servant’s hand. Rhaegar had gotten furious at the mere mention of that event, and severely chastised Daenerys for her actions. She had never seen him so angry, and his temper scared her. _He is a dragon, indeed._ “You have to understand him,” Rhaenys whispered to her that night. “He is most acquainted with Summerhall and its tragedy, a tragedy which happened for this same reason.”

“I am not in Summerhall. I know what fire is and how dangerous it is.”

Rhaenys sighed. “Do you?”

She had heard once of how expensive dragon eggs were, but how anyone in the known world would buy them at exuberant prices, nonetheless. Aegon had told her the tale of Elissa Farman, who stole Princess Rhaena’s dragon eggs to sell them and was never seen again. Daenerys cried harder, and Aegon apologized profusely. “Why would you tell me such horrible things, nephew?” She screamed. “Is it perhaps you want me to feel even sadder?”

“No!” Aegon started to stutter, his hands sweating. “I- I just wanted to… let you know and-…”

“Leave!” She screamed once more and hid under her covers. She wanted her three dragons back since she was still only planning on what to name them. Maybe she would name them after her ancestors, Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys; or any Valyrian god from the books Maester Colrin had gifted her. But now that possibility was taken away from her, since they were nowhere to be found, and possibly being sold at millions upon millions of golden dragons in a foreign port.

When she was left alone at her chambers, she sneaked out of them to visit Rhaegar at his study. She feared his answer upon telling him she had lost them, since he had bought them from Asshai itself. _The shadowlands,_ she thought, _and how I lost its magic._

From behind his door he heard the voices of many men discussing economic matters, but seldomly heard Rhaegar’s voice, and the times she heard him he sounded stressed, almost melancholic. It was the voice he used the mornings after he played his harp reminiscing of lady Lyanna, or when he talked to Aemon about her. It was his voice of loss and grief; the one he used when he was especially stressed, when the coffers were running low, or when Daenerys would go missing to visit her lowborn friends. The doors opened and the council came out—a plethora of old, robust men who lead the kingdom in various matters. Monford Velaryon, Master of Ships, immediately recognized her and offered his most warm smile. “Princess, have you worn the crown my daughters gifted you?”

“Yes.” She replied shyly, nodding. “I am not wearing it now, I do not want to break it.”

“It is alright.” He answered, adjusting his jacket. “Do wear it when having tea with my daughters. They were proud by it. God’s sake, one of them wants to be a blacksmith!” He chuckled and bowed to Daenerys, going on his way. After the other lords gave her some courtesies, she entered the study, finding Rhaegar caressing his temples, his eyes closed. _He looks exhausted_ , she understood, _but I must tell him._

“Rhaegar.” Her sweet voice sounded so tiny in the room, almost like a dead whisper. He looked up and their eyes met, and suddenly she felt a chill down her spine. The atmosphere was atrocious, and even though asking him about his emotions was not the purpose she had visited him to, she felt compelled to ask. “Are you angry with me?”

The king sighed. Daenerys thought of him more of a father than a brother, and when she was smaller, she had mistakenly called him “papa” more than once. The other children had laughed at her, but Rhaegar did not try to correct her. It felt so wrong, many times, to address him as brother, and sometimes she felt he also saw her as a daughter. “No. If this is about the egg incident, then I am not angry with you.”

She gulped. Not only she had made him angry the time she put them in the fireplace to try and hatch them, now she had to tell him she lost them. The precious, expensive, and magic eggs from Asshai. The most iconic imagery of her house, of her ancestral home of Valyria… “W-well… I am glad.”

He did not reply. Daenerys had never felt that small, and she wanted to run away. Far, far away from all of this. Maybe she would run away to Asshai and get another three eggs, or perhaps she would find the theft who took them and take them back before they sold them. “Yes, Daenerys?” His voice interrupted her thoughts, and she visibly jumped. “Mother told me you spent the entire day crying and refusing companionship.”

“Yes. It is just…” Better to approach it immediately than let it sting forever. “I cannot find the eggs. They were in my room, and suddenly they were not. Someone has stolen them, or I lost…”

Rhaegar nodded. “I know.” He sat up and walked over a wooden cabinet, locked with a thick chain. He gestured for a guard to come and with a quick slash of their sword, the chain broke in half. The door opened and Rhaegar grabbed from it the wooden box with the three eggs inside, but did not give them to Daenerys. Instead he gave her a stern look and called a servant. “I will not allow for someone to get burned again. Not even you. What you did was extremely dangerous—not even the most skilled, intelligent Targaryens flew and hatched dragons at your age.”

She felt her cheeks burn with what first was confusion, then sadness, then rage. Fury. She was furious. He had played with her emotions like it was nothing, and then mocked her around the servants when he felt like it. She had loved the eggs as if they were real dragons, and he took them away. “You gave them to me. You cannot take them away.”

“It is giving them to you the same reason I can take them away, but you will still be able to enjoy them. I will instruct one of the servants to hang them as wall decoration in your chambers, so you can look at them whenever you like, and not hurt you and others in the process.”

A young man wearing leather came inside and carefully took the wooden box, amazed by its contents. He acted like they might as well handed him a live dragon, for he held the box with such politeness and fear. _They are mine_ , Daenerys thought, _they were given to me to take care for._ “No!” She screamed, blocking the door. Even with her arms extended, she did not cover the width of it, and her height surely did not cover the top of it. “They are mine! Leave them back at the table!”

“You will see them, they will be yours. But not within your reach. Let the servant go and let us stop this nonsense.” His voice was tense, and his jaw tightened. Daenerys felt like throwing a tantrum, and let the entire Red Keep hear her demands. It might be a childish way to be heard, but it was a sure one. At least for her age. Rhaegar sat down on his chair again. “Let the servant go, Daenerys, or I will order Ser Barristan to come and take you away.”

The servant timidly walked up to her, and with a low voice, looking at his feet, he spoke. “Your grace, I am more than glad to serve you. Please let me put these eggs in your room.” His hands were shaking and he was defenseless. Ser Barristan had taught her to locate the opponent’s weakness, or at least she had taken that lesson that way. She knew she could not do it, and she would get in trouble with it if she took the eggs away from him and run away… that is not what a proper princess does, never mind a Targaryen one, but she… she had to do it.

Daenerys quickly grabbed the box away from the servant and slightly pushed him to make him lose his balance, and then ran away as fast as she could. He heard Rhaegar screaming out for her in the back, but she did not want to hear his stupid voice anymore. _If he truly worries about others, then he would not have stolen my eggs_. The box weighed more than she had planned, but she was agile, and her petite body fit inside the most tight, closed alleys and secret passages in the keep. She mentally thanked Aemon for showing her around the Red Keep, the tunnels Maegor the Cruel had built and aptly kept in secrecy so no one would find them. A group of soldiers walked in front of her to stop her, but she ran into the Grand Library. Silent, enormous, and a labyrinth on all its own. She started to crouch and sneak around the tall bookshelves, and feared for a moment she would find Rhaenys reading there. Maybe she would sympathize with her cause, or rat on her. She had no time to find out, and when the soldiers broke into the library she hid below a tight, dusty bookshelf. The pressure was making her feel short of breath and dizzy, and the dust falling on her nostrils made her contain a loud sneeze. What were minutes felt like hours and even days to her, and when the soldiers left, she kept sneaking around. One stand was hiding a secret passage which she deduced was the one leading to the basement of the Red Keep. Her arms were starting to feel sore, but she was determined to keep running away. _If I must live below the castle for the rest of my days, so be it._

But the idea of eating rats for breakfast, lunch and dinner was not so appealing to her, on second thought. Perhaps she would go up in the dead of the night and sneak some pastries and food, and then go back to the basement. But then she would risk being caught by a guard, and…

The basement was big, making the throne room seem like a servant room. She stared in wonder at all the treasures there: dragon skulls, ribcages, teeth, paintings of old Targaryen kings and queens… Rhaegar had ordered before she was born to remove all the dragon imagery from the castle, in lieu of Robert’s Rebellion. And when the war ended, they did not put them back, and some speculated Rhaegar felt ashamed of the dragon scenery. She wondered how could not he put them all back; Balerion’s skull was enormous, powerful, fearful. She gently touched it, like caressing him, and felt his power fill her. She looked at her eggs and showed them to Balerion’s bones. “Look, these are your great-grandchildren!” She joked and giggled to herself. She had no idea if the eggs came down from the line of Balerion or his sisters, but then again some said the dragons all had one common ancestor. The second moon, the Qartheen people told, and how it broke one day and millions of dragons came of it. Her ancestors spoke of a volcano; and some maesters were sure the Valyrians created them from magic. _All of these make sense, why fight over it?_

The deeper she walked into the cellar, the darker it became. An old torch laid bare on the ground, and she tried to light it. Finding dry wood in a corner, she recalled Aegon’s lessons on how to survive in the wild, if she would. At last a fire was made, and then lit the torch with it. The room became even larger, and she felt so tiny alongside the skulls and bones she should have felt scared—but she did not. Tiny skulls and bones were there, too, and the last dragon to ever live was laid on the floor. It was the size of a cat, and its bones seemed fragile, too. She had heard her mother say once that The Dragonpit was the first mistake the Targaryens had made, for the dragons were made to fly free and grow strong. She waltzed around the skulls in wonder, finding comfort in her eggs. _What you could have been_ , she whispered to them.

She sat inside Balerion’s mouth and arranged a napping spot out of a box and a ragged cloth. She was tired, and the running and sneaking around made her hungry and exhausted. She took the eggs out of their containment and held them close to her chest, closing her eyes and humming a song of comfort. She felt sure she could feel them beating, like a living heart. But then again, she was sure it was her own chest.

She awoke minutes later, or perhaps hours. She smelled a terrible stench, and soon she realized the fire she had made with the wood planks surrounded her. A skull on the other side was engulfed in flames, while the smaller bones were already turning to ash. She held the eggs tighter to her, but the white one fell down her arms and rolled straight into the flames. _No, no, please_ … she begged, internally. _Please let me live._ She ran towards the egg, and to pick it up the flames hugged her hand and arm. The worst pain she had ever felt was burning it, and she hoped her screams of anguish would alert somebody she was trapped in there. She managed to stop the fire on her extremity, but the flames were closing on her. “Mama!” She called, her tears running down her face. She almost felt like they were evaporating, too. Her hand was red, pulsing, in pain. “Rhaegar!” She felt helpless, and the eggs rolled down from her arms. She kept screaming, and the flames kept roaring. She heard one crack, louder than all the fire around her, and then another, and another. Her screams were soon accompanied by three high-pitched roars from beside her, and when she looked down she could not breathe.

Three tiny dragons were looking up at her, bathing deliciously in the flames. Black, green, white. The size of a small cat, but the shape of magic, of fire, of heat. She offered her healthy hand to the black one, and he contently climbed it, reaching her shoulder. The other two sat on her lap, screaming to the fire. She did not feel speech coming out of her, but as soon she realized what had happened, she started laughing in glee. _Dragons_ , she thought, _dragons!_

“Fire!” Someone exclaimed from the other side. “There is fire! Help!” A group of men and women had brought buckets upon buckets of water, trying to extinguish the flames. She sat again inside Balerion’s mouth, where the fire had not yet reached, and hid her face and dragons on her knees. “Do not be afraid.” She spoke to them in a low tone of voice, but she shook her head. “The fire is yours, you should not be afraid.”

A few moments later, a platoon of soldiers came down with more water, and soon the fire was extinguished. Daenerys realized the fire was not as dramatic as her fear made it out to be, but it still had managed to harm her. A woman found her, and as she shouted her discovery her eyes opened like plates.

Rhaegar came by a few minutes later, his steps stressed, his face tense. “Daenerys.” He ran towards her, tears streaming down his face. “Daenerys, why…”

But as Daenerys lifted her face from her knees, a small growl came from her lap. The green dragon looked at Rhaegar in wonder, while the white one took a graceful nap in Daenerys’s healthy arm. The black one sprung from her back, and regally sat on her shoulder. Daenerys looked at Rhaegar with amazement, a slight smile upon her lips. She was covered in ashes head to toe, and when she finally let the smile crack in a full one the dragons sang with her.

“I did it, Rhaegar.” She sat up, and everyone took a step back. She felt like a true queen now, and she did not need a crown of aquamarine, or a Valyrian Steel sword, for she had dragons. She started laughing of excitement again. “I did it!”

Rhaegar knelt in front of her, staring wide-eyed at the miracle in front of him. Not one, but three of them. As she tried to touch the black one, the dragon recoiled and hissed. The other two followed, and to the sound of Rhaella’s distressed screams they all hid on Daenerys’s back. “Daenerys, my child, my sweet girl!” Rhaella ran towards her, tripping on her way. Her hair was disheveled, her dress quickly staining with the ashes around. Upon seeing Daenerys’s burned hand she went in for a hug, but Rhaegar stopped her. “Mother…” He was speechless, and Rhaella got frustrated.

“Let me check on my daughter, Rhaegar, I…” Her complaint was interrupted as another hiss came from Daenerys’s back, and the dragons gracefully presented themselves to Rhaella. The woman fell to the floor, fainting.

A circle of soldiers surrounded Daenerys as she got out of the cellar with the dragons on her chest, on her shoulder, on her arm. A bandage had been placed on her burned hand, and it hurt, but she paid no attention to it. Rhaenys, Aemon, Viserys and Aegon were waiting outside, accompanied by the entire court, their faces full of anxiety. The soldiers got out of her way and presented Daenerys to her nephews and brother, where they all stared in wonder, fear, excitement, curiosity.

“The fire is mine.” She exclaimed, her voice now a commanding, queenly tone when it was sweet and small before. “The dragons have risen again, let it be known to the world!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Daenerys hatch her dragons in the original story after three people died? Yes. Did they do the same in this fic? No, but hey, it's a fic. Anything could happen in any way possible. (Shrug emoji).


	14. Sansa | The Song of Snow

**XIV**   
**Sansa**   
**The Song of Snow**

She could not help but notice her good mood, as if a curse had been lifted. That night she dreamt of laying in the snow at the forest, basking in the cold touching her face, her hands, her hair. She wished she could have stayed in her dream a little bit more, but she did not complain about waking up either. As she opened her eyes, she noticed it was barely dawn; the room was tinted in a cold, dark blue, but there was still enough light for her to move around seamlessly. She lit a candle and inspected her eye in the mirror. _Still the same, itches even more._ Her father had promised her and her siblings to take them in a small hunting expedition in the near landscapes, with the condition of Catelyn coming along. Last time she had gone in one of those expeditions, her father’s men had hunted a giant deer and a muskox, and dinner that day was glorious. However, and she had been warned too, as winter approached and the temperatures dropped, every but the most resilient animals decided to hibernate, hide, or migrate. Perhaps there would be no muskox that time.

She walked over her closet and started dressing herself. That day she would wear a simple cotton dress with fox fur, lightweight enough to move around carelessly, but warm enough as to not die trying. She saw the oils her mother used to style and brush her hair with, and decided for once to try them on by herself. It was difficult, since she had yet to master the quantity she had to put on, and by the end of it her hair was looking a greasy mess, as if she had not bathed in months. She would wear her ushanka, then, and it would hide it. Or she hoped so.

As she finished, the first rays of the day started showing themselves. The birds started singing, and Winterfell came alive once again. She sat on the window, looking at the people coming out of their homes below and reinitiating their labors; on the distance, the baker had begun making bread. The smell made her feel incredibly hungry, and she let herself smile a bit. A small knock on her door startled her.

“M’lady.” Her servant spoke, looking at the floor. “I have come to help you dress.”

“Thank you, Lysa, but I did it by myself.”

“Then I will resume my other duties. Your father is waiting for you at breakfast.”

She hopped from the window and gleefully walked towards the dining room. She did not mind so much people staring at her eye anymore—not that people were staring at it too much, either, since they had grown accustomed to it. The servants were hushing around and whispering, giving each other the side eye as they spoke. She wanted to know what the fuss was about, but ultimately decided it was impolite to directly ask. What if it was not something of her concern? Or adult things? The servants and maids at the castle liked to whisper about forbidden romances, or northern ladies kissing other people but her northern lords. She did not like to hear them, and her mother had said that she should not care about it. _You are a princess of Winterfell and the upcoming queen of Westeros; your intrigue should be political._

She found Arya on her way to breakfast, and she let out a warm smile as she saw her as she was: hopped straight from bed to floor, her hair messy, still on her sleepwear. Arya noticed her and ran straight to her, her eyes shining with excitement and happiness. “Sansa! Did you hear?” A servant came running behind her, but Arya resisted as she clung to Sansa’s fur sleeves. “The servants whisper so, and father cannot believe it.”

“What is it?”

“Dragons!” Arya exclaimed, jumping around. “There be dragons!”

Sansa frowned, laughing. “What are you on about, sister?”

The servant managed to catch Arya and carried her away to dress her. “Pardon me, m’lady. She will be joining you for breakfast soon.”

She entered the dining room and saw her father staring incredulously at his steward. _Jeyne’s father_ , she thought, _Jeyne is here!_ Her friend had been gone when she arrived and started looking for her. The girl was sitting in the other side of the table, reading a poem when she noticed Sansa. The face she made was not something Sansa was expecting—or something she wanted, more precisely. Jeyne looked at her, mouth open, eyes impressed. She suddenly wanted to bury herself under the ground, but decided against it; what good would it do? If she still wanted to be friends, she would accept it. If not… but if not… what would she do? Sansa walked to her, her chin up, hands behind her back. “Hello, lady Jeyne Poole. I missed you.”

“Sansa, hello.” Jeyne stood up from her chair, leaving the poem aside. “You look very different. Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.” She answered, barely touching the scar on her cheekbone. Jeyne flinched at the sight of it. “It itches, though. But that means it is healing.”

“Well, I am glad.” A silence surrounded them two for a moment, but Jeyne could not hold back anymore. Her lips started twitching, her eyes watered and suddenly she embraced Sansa. “I missed you, I was scared. Some rumors back then said that you had died, and I believed them. How stupid of me. How stupid.”

Sansa started crying too. “It is alright. I am alive, more than ever.” They broke the embrace, but Jeyne could not stand looking at her eye much longer. She adverted the gaze, and Sansa felt shy again. Her mother entered the room and curtsied to the two girls, warmly welcoming Jeyne and caressing Sansa’s cheek. She felt secure and strong again. Robb came after her, holding a baby Rickon in his arm with such tenderness he might as well hold a gold plate. A few laughs were heard from the hallway, and then came Arya and Bran running together with no care for the world, flapping their arms around as if they were birds. Or dragons, Sansa thought. Arya had mentioned dragons, but she did not explain much. Or anything at all. She wished she had listened to the gossips the servants were spreading around, and maybe she would answer her doubts.

Eddard laughed, and then a sigh came from him. “Sure, fine.” He reclined on his seat at the servants brought the food, and Sansa sat beside him. “Let their flames consume us, then.”

“It is true.” Vayon Poole, the steward, spoke. “It is from House Targaryen itself. It has their stamp and king Rhaegar’s signature on it.”

“Seven hells.” He stared at his family and smiled. “Well, let it happen. Then perhaps winter will not be so cold.”

“What happened?” She asked, her voice coming out much sweeter than she had intended. The mention of the Targaryens fed her curiosity.

“Dragons!” Arya exclaimed again, and Bran let out a roar. “They are flying in the skies, and burning fields, and eating people once more!” She did not sound fearful, as intimidating she made her statement be. She sounded excited, and Sansa raised an eyebrow.

“Not quite. Yet.” Vayon saved the letter he had read to her father in his pocket and sat beside Jeyne. “A letter came from King’s Landing at midnight. Three dragons had been hatched by princess Daenerys Targaryen, from flames. Three, one white, one green, one black. The announcement has been sent to the entire realm, and only the Red Keep has seen this miracle. We may doubt, but this is prince Rhaegar speaking.”

She stared wide eyed at Vayon, her mouth open. Dragons, she spoke to herself, there really be dragons. The mere thought of it seemed absurd, even coming from Daenerys herself. She hatched three dragons from eggs, then. She could not help but laugh. Her father copied her. “See?” He spoke, taking a bite from his bread. “Not even Sansa can believe it.” She felt butterflies in her stomach, and imagined herself riding a dragon with Daenerys once she married Aegon. Would he get one, too? What about Viserys? Would Rhaenys fly, too? And Aemon… what would he do?

“What are their names?” She asked.

“That was not mentioned.” Vayon spoke, drinking from his cup. “Barely other information was mentioned. But if this were to be true… the Targaryens would rise to power once again, and they would be unstoppable. If Robert’s Rebellion had happened under dragons, there would not have been any rebellion at all…”

“Vayon.” Eddard interrupted him, his cold, gray gaze looking through him. The rebellion was a sensitive topic for him, and would immediately sour his mood for the entire day. Sometimes she would ask him if he missed his friend Robert, but he would not answer. How stupid of me, she would say to herself, who he misses is Lyanna. “Let us eat first. When we finish, we may start the hunting, if it pleases my lady…” He looked at Catelyn, who was seemingly ignoring the dragon conversation happening around her. She shrugged.

“Surely. Hopefully, we might not cross paths with the dragons.” The ambience was not as thick and tense as before, and Sansa let out a content sigh. She did not like to see her parents fighting, stuck in a loveless relationship. If they could not love each other, what hope she had for her own marriage in the future? Bran giggled.

“No, mama, dragons are at King’s Landing, not here.”

Catelyn smiled. “They sure are, sweet one.”

At half-morning, she was ready. The stables were readying their horses, and Sansa felt excited for the hunting trip. It was meant to be a short one, and Robb feared he would only hunt a hare, or a baby rabbit. He was determined to show off and teach the older lords how able he was as a heir to the Winterfell, and Sansa promised to cheer him up even if he caught the most miserable thing. He frowned. “No need to pity me.”

“I will not be pitying you. Hunting whatever you hunt is still impressive. I wish I could do that.”

He blushed, flattered. “I could teach you.”

“Even when mama is here?” She smiled.

“I will ask her.” They both got on the same horse, and Sansa held tight to him.

“I am glad we get to ride again. Do not go too fast, or mama and papa will get mad at you.”

He giggled. “Cannot promise anything.” And she smiled back.

The adventure was a short one, but they introduced themselves to a forest. The trees she saw, the pines, the musk, the sounds, the snow… they were the same of her dream, but she shook her head. Of course she dreamed of it, she had been to that same forest so many times she lost count. The hounds they had brought along started barking furiously, and soon started leading to a small, tight track. “We will not follow them.” Eddard spoke. “It is too much of a dangerous path.”

But the hounds did not respond to his complaints nor worries, and one of them managed to sneak into the rocks, leaves and sticks. After a few seconds of silence, he started barking loudly. The others followed along, and Eddard sent one of his men to check.

Catelyn sighed. “If it ends up being a muskox…”

“It could not be. A hound would have barked in distress after being attacked, or it would already have charged at us.” He answered, trying to comfort her, squeezing her hand. “We will be fine. Do not tense up.”

“Easier said than done.” She straightened her back, waking up the baby Rickon she carried in a sling around her chest. Rickon looked around. She seemed exhausted, since she had not gotten down from her horse since they left the castle. Sansa gestured for Robb to approach to her horse.

“Mother, we will be alright. Father will protect us, and Robb knows how to fight off beasts. Even Bran knows how to use a sword… a little.”

The servant Eddard had sent came up running, a smile on his face, sweating. “M’lords! The river!”

“Speak up, sir, and tell us.” Eddard tensed.

“You must to see this!”

Robb led the expedition, and Sansa could feel his heartbeat as she wrapped her arms around him for security. It was beating fast. “Slow down!” She exclaimed, tightening. “We are going to fall down!” The horse struggled through the rock and leaves but managed to come through, and the sight upon her was even more worth than the servant had alluded to.

 _Direwolves_ , she said out of breath. Blood surrounded them, but no predator was on sight. She got off the saddle before Robb, but managed to keep a distance between the pups and her. Robb walked towards the little wolves and shouted for her father. “Father! Come see this!”

Eddard appeared, then, and Catelyn after him. In another horse, Arya and Bran struggled to see what was going on, and a servant helped them to get out. Bran was the first one to gasp in wonder, and Arya ran up to the pups. Eddard stopped her. “Careful, there.” But he could not divert his gaze away from the miracle in front of him. “It seems that magic is not for the dragonlords only.”

Five of them, Sansa thought, four for us… and the other one, who?

Robb walked up to one of them and looked around. “The mother does not seem to be around. They seem hungry, and even a little cold.”

“Do not approach them any further, Robb.” Catelyn spoke, nervous. “Perhaps the mother went out for food, and might come back soon.”

“I do not think so.” Spoke a servant from behind some bushes. As he opened them, a terrible, putrid smell came from them. “There she is. Poor girl.”

Sansa threw up at the smell of it. A big direwolf laid on the bushes, with her bowels out and her tongue to the side. What kind of giant monster could defeat a direwolf? What kind of beast did it to her? Catelyn stood beside her and stroked her back, putting a scented cloth over her nose. “Breath this, my child, and not that stench.” But she could not stop looking at the gruesome scene in front of her, and felt worse. _Her pups now lay alone, starving, freezing…_ Robb grabbed a grey one with beautiful, shining yellow ones. “I like this one, father. Can I keep it?”

“I…” Eddard struggled to answer, looking at the deceased mother, and then at the pups again. “I do not know.”

“There has not been a direwolf this side of the wall in hundreds of year, m’lord.” One of his men said. “This is truly a miracle. Magical, even. There be dragons, and there be wolves.”

Sansa looked at the smallest one, who was biting a branch, looking for a teat to drink from. Carefully, and with planned steps, she caressed it. “Hello.” She whispered. “That is not a teat.” That one had grey fur, too, but it seemed much weaker than the others, and Sansa feared she would not survive another night. Her eyes teared up. “Father, this one is dying.”

“All of them are, it seems.” He sighed and unsaddled. Arya sneaked up past him and ran towards the pups, followed by Bran. She stood before one of the biggest, the same as her other siblings, but this one had darker eyes. She smiled.

“Papa, I want this one. She likes me.” She grabbed the pup and held her close to her chest, much to the horror of Catelyn. “I promise to take care of her, forever and always.”

“Arya.” Eddard spoke, walking up to her. He got interrupted by Bran, who had already bonded with a smaller one.

Bran was caressing a silver one, clumsily trying to carry him. He gave up after a few tries, but did not get away from him. “This one I like, papa. He is soft and seems brave.”

“Seven hells.” Eddard muttered, looking to Catelyn for guidance. The woman stared in shock at her children, and Sansa suspected she was glad Rickon was not able to talk yet.

“This one is for baby Rickon.” Robb grabbed another one, this time with black fur and green eyes. Catelyn shook her head.

“No. You might have them, but baby Rickon is merely… a babe. He cannot handle wolves, nor pets.”

“He will learn, mama.” Robb said, and approached Rickon with the black wolf in his hands. Rickon smiled, and touched its fur.

The only one left was one with eyes red as blood and fur as white and shiny as snow itself. Sansa pondered for a moment about it, and carefully cradled it in her arms. This one, she thought, prince Aemon might have it if he does not fly in a dragon. She looked up to her father, still carrying the white one, and then grabbed the small and weaker one. “Father, it is within your knowledge that I am not an irresponsible lady, much less a careless one. Please let me keep the small one, and I promise to train her to be docile, kind, and gentle, like me. She will give you no trouble, and you will not have to chastise her never, but please let us save them.” _Daenerys has her dragons, and we have our wolves._

Her father looked around, lost. Catelyn was trying to keep away from the black wolf Robb was holding to Rickon, but dared to say nothing. For the first time, she felt powerful. The wolves were for the Starks, and the Starks were for the wolves. How could her father say no? How would he betray their ancestry, their imagery, their power? They were children, indeed, but children learn, and they eventually grew up. The other houses would feel intimidated and amazed by the power they would have by raising direwolves, and no one would question their rule—not that they had, of course. Her father sighed.

The way back to Winterfell was much quicker than the way to the woods. She held on tight to Robb, a smile on her face. A snowflake fell on her cheek, and then another, and another. Soon her hair was adorned of white, and as they approached the castle she felt prouder.

“Let them sound the horn of our arrival.” Catelyn spoke. “They must open the door for us.”

The doors opened, and the people inside stared in awe at the new arrivals with them. Look at us, Sansa thought, the wolves are home. A snowflake fell on her cheek, and then other, and then another. She would wait for the white raven to come the next morning, announcing the arrival of winter. But she was not as afraid anymore, for now she had a companion for the cold nights—someone who would warm her, and cuddle with her. She was determined to let her pup survive and live long, and grow even bigger than life.

That night, she fed her pup cow’s milk, hoping it would revive her. The wolf drank it with such gusto Sansa was amazed by its will to live. The other children played and fed their pups, too, even the white one. As the moon rose and faintly illuminated the castle, Sansa felt strong, powerful, magical. _Is this what Daenerys felt when she hatched her dragons? Did she feel the power of her ancestry through her?_

“I will name him Grey Wind, and hopefully he will be as fast as it.” Robb said, leaving his wolf to rest with the others. “Do you have a name, Arya?”

“Nymeria, like the queen from the books.” She gently brushed the fur and hugged her wolf, tightly. “She is the biggest one, and will fight like no other wolf does.”

Sansa looked at the pup on her lap, who was happily responding to Sansa’s strokes. She smiled. _I will name you Lady, and you will be kind and gentle, and polite and clean, and will amaze people wherever you go._

The moon illuminated the pups, and soon Lady started a faint howl. Sansa giggled and stared in awe at her, and then the other wolves joined her sister. A few seconds later, a magical sound imbued Winterfell, and the wolves sang together, announcing once again that they were home—and they were going nowhere.


	15. Daenerys | The Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! This chapter is severely under-formatted since AO3 keeps removing all the formatting every time I preview it. Hope it doesn't cause any type of confusion on dialogues, thoughts or actions the character does.

A sheep, two calves, one bull, five foxes… Month by month the dragons were becoming hungrier, insatiable, angrier. They wished to roam free, to meet the skies, to taste the sun, but King’s Landing had not been kind to them. Three times a ragged knight had gone up to the Dragonpit, and three times they had tried to kill them. The now healed scars in their wings and scales were proof of the fear and curses the people had given them, and the dragons became angrier, lone, tired.

“They are not growing like they are supposed to.” Daenerys said, sitting on a step. The Dragonpit was in ruin, never meant to be used again, until her dragons hatched. The great cages where dragons rested, laid, and hid had to be reconstructed with much cheaper materials than intended, and the dome had a big hole on the top. Her dragons had escaped many times through that hole, but now they had outgrown it. 

  
The pit, as majestic and grandiose it was, she did not like jailing them in it. At the end of the room laid a magnificent obsidian sculpture picturing Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar, with their wings corroded by time, dragonfire and thieves who wanted a piece of fortune. Rhaegar mentioned to her, once, that those sculptures used to have rubies, emeralds and opals for eyes, but after the Storming of the Dragonpit, before the dragons perished, they either melted or were stolen. A great building such as the pit was now black, full of ashes, and melancholic stories. “It is because the dragons do not grow as big when enclosed.” Aemon walked up to the green dragon, feeding it a big piece of pig meat. The creature immediately ran up to it, sniffed it, and promptly blazed it with flame, charring it and contently eating it. Aemon smiled. 

  
“I do not have a choice.” Her voice echoed through the enormous walls. She had cried when Rhaegar ordered her to enclose them to the pit, in lieu of the smallfolk wanting their heads, and a multitude of visitors from all parts of the known world wanting to see the miracle by themselves. She could not help but agree when a family of Lysene merchants had sneaked into the stables to pet them and were immediately burned to death after scaring the beasts. The fire had roared for days, and that part of the castle closed until last year, when it was rebuilt. That had happened when the dragons were merely the size of a cow, and now that they had surpassed those of a stallion, she feared the consequences would be even worse.

“When we marry, we should… we should move away to other lands, far from here, where they can roam free and eat whatever they want.”

  
“I do not think that would be allowed.” Aemon sat beside her, gently squeezing her arm as to comfort her. “They need us here, to aid Aegon, to help Rhaenys, and… father wants me to be a steward, you see. I cannot do my duties all the way from Essos, on Pentos. Or anywhere you want to go.”

  
“I know.” She sighed, hiding her face between her knees. Raising dragons was way harder than she had imagined to; her ancestors took care of one, each, and she had to raise three, from egg to beast. Her family often helped; Viserys had bonded with the white one, in which he spent time feeding it and caressing it. Daenerys had named that one, then, Viserion, and Viserys had warmed up to her, too. Her brother would then go out, and the people who threatened to harm him he would scream, “go, if you dare! My dragon shall turn you to ashes!”, and it worked. On his wedding feast, he personally asked for Viserion to appear, and between the delightful cheers of the guests, the dragon let out a flame towards the sky. The guests all wanted to pet it afterwards, but Viserion retreated behind Daenerys. It liked attention, but at a distance. They are meant to be gazed at, not touched by others, the finnicky creatures they were.

“But if I leave them here for the rest of their lives… they will die again, and the world will not see dragons ever again.”

  
The green one approached Aemon again, and rested its head on his lap. In winter, the dragons’ skin was touchable, since it normally tended to burn the hands of those who touched them. Rhaegal, she had named that one. She wanted to honor her brother, and Rhaegar was rightfully honored. The dragon was straightforward, calm where it needed to be—but did not hesitate to snap and hiss when it sensed a threat towards him, its siblings, or Daenerys. Just like you, Daenerys told him, he is a protective one.   
The black one sat gloriously below the statue of Visenya Targaryen, who was wielding her acclaimed Valyrian sword, and was staring straight into Daenerys’s eyes. Sometimes she liked to sit below her, too, and pretend she was her. Then Drogon would come and stand in front of her, protectively. Drogon, indeed. She did not like the origins of the name, but it stuck, nonetheless. A simple mispronunciation in the courtyard, meaning to say dragon, and suddenly the black dragon had adopted the mispronunciation. She hated it and tried to snap him out of it, but it was too late—the beast was stubborn, refused other names, and just went along with it. She was the laughingstock of the castle for weeks, but when the jokes got too far and people started hurting her feelings, the beast snapped at them. “How do you like Drogon now?” She laughed back.

  
“Drogon.” She called for him. The beast flew up to her and landed on her side, allowing itself to be stroked on the head. Daenerys smiled and looked into its eyes, wondering how long until he grew up big enough for her to ride, to the clouds and the stars. Aemon stepped back; that beast intimidated him. Drogon grew faster than its siblings; by a few months, his wingspan covered the width of the entrance at the Red Keep, and his horns looked demonic. That was, however, before they were enclosed to the pit. They had grown much slower, and Daenerys was starting to suspect the growth had stalled. It made her sad.

  
“We should get going,” Aemon stood up and led Rhaegal back to its enclosure, gesturing for Daenerys to come with him. Since she had burned her hand when hatching the eggs, the sword lessons had come to a halt. A year before she had resumed then, but her progress slowed. It did not hurt, but it was not a pretty sight. The skin had turned hard and gotten a pink hue; for months she could not feel when touching, and the gossips at court had forced her to wear a glove on it. But the grip on the sword handle was not as strong and good with the silk gloves, so she decided the court had to deal with the scars. “Ser Barristan will make us lift heavy boxes again if we are late.”

  
“Agreed.” She walked over to him and said her goodbyes to her dragons, smiling. “I will be back soon, do not start a fire while I am gone.”

  
Aegon had recently turned sixteen, meaning the wedding was near. The Starks would travel back to King’s Landing to leave lady Sansa Stark to Rhaegar’s guardianship and Aegon’s hand, and the thought of it made her feel butterflies in her stomach. She had been interchanging letters and pretty words with her; sometimes, she would write poems just for her, and Sansa would write another back.   
What do you look like, now? Daenerys wrote in one of her letters.

  
My hair falls to my hips now, and I am much taller, she answered.

  
Her hair, she thought. How lovely. She wished to braid it and was not shy on expressing her sentiments through the letters. Was it soft? Maybe a little coarse? Did it still shine like fire when the sun hit it? Sansa had also gotten along with a direwolf since the magic was not only for Daenerys. Lady, Sansa called the wolf, and would write with excitement and glee how big it had gotten, how soft its fur was, and how gentle and kind she was with people. Her other siblings had gotten a direwolf, too, and they had reserved one for Aemon. Daenerys did not hear the end of it when Aemon received the news—the boy insisted for his father to take him to Winterfell, to take the pup, and raise it on King’s Landing. But the travels to such far and cold regions were expensive and long, and even much more on winter. And since the winter would last for a few more years, as the Citadel wrote, the wolf was out of reach for him. He cried, but on secret.

  
The skies were clear, but a freezing breeze was caressing their faces. On days like those, the dragons would emit a vapor from their warm bodies, such as people when speaking. The horses were forced to wear bear-like cloaks to protect them, but Daenerys’s horse was still stubborn. Aemon helped her to calm the stallion, but as the animal neighed in protest she fell flat on her back. She felt the air leaving her lungs at the hardness of the fall and Aemon calling her name. She felt the snowflakes land on her cheeks and eyelids and lips—such a precious sight—and soon she recovered her breath. She wanted to lay on the snow a little longer.  
“Are you alright?” Aemon asked, lifting her from under her arms. “Do you need me to call someone?”

  
“No.” She answered, but the truth was that her back hurt, and possibly a bruise was on its way. She did not feel able to ride the horse again. “Let me ride with you.”

  
“If you are hurt you will not be able to participate in the training, though.” Aemon saddled her, and then sat behind, protectively surrounding her with his arms and taking the reins. “Let us leave the horse here, we will ask a guard on our way to come and get it.”  
The dragonpit was not as near as Daenerys wished from the Red Keep, but on horse it was less tedious than it was by foot. She let herself lay on Aemon as to let her back rest, but decided against it as she felt his hard leather armor and his various hidden daggers on it. It annoyed her how over-weaponized he was all the time; he was always carrying a sword, a quiver with at least ten arrows, and a bow. She would sometimes steal those last two items and practice on her own, since swordfighting had gotten much harder and tedious with her scarred hand, and she had gotten pretty good at it—much better than she had expected, at least. But at the eyes of everybody, her mother, her brothers and her nephews, she rarely did so anymore. She felt seen, observed, judged. 

  
Aemon instructed a soldier to take care of the horse they had left behind, and at last they arrived at the Red Keep. On snowy days, the roofs would take on a precious, almost shimmery white color, giving a magical appearance. Before they had confined the dragons to the pit, they would stand on the highest towers, melting the snow. She missed those days.

  
The courtyard was as lively as a spring day, with children running around and the horses being led by the stablemen. Ser Barristan was advising Aegon on his posture and technique, while Viserys sat near with Arianne at his side. “What a happy marriage,” Daenerys murmured at Aemon. “Hopefully, we can be like them.”

  
“Or not.” He scowled, instructing for Daenerys to get off the horse. “Viserys is weak to the touch and gaze of the dornish princess. He is her dog. I do not want to be your dog.”

  
Daenerys giggled. “You could be a really cute dog.” Aemon dedicated an angry stare at her, and she took the cue. Her shoulders started to hurt, but she decided not to tell anyone. She was decided to fight and train, and possibly outshine someone that day, but as she tied her boots a sharp pain on her upper back froze her. She felt incredibly humiliated, and soon after she asked for help.

  
She was starting to hate the walls in her room. White brick, with a crack half-hidden behind a dusty library. She had started to see it more frequently, as the winter dragged on and the temperatures sank day by day. Her mother had told her it was for her to not catch a cold, since Aegon’s wedding was nearby, and winter colds were much deadlier than spring allergies. She laid on her bed, staring directly at the ceiling, and closed her eyes. Maybe she would fall asleep and dream of warmer times, of riding her dragons, of visiting The Reach, Highgarden, and perhaps Casterly Rock. The Lannisters were coming to Aegon’s wedding, and maybe she could ask them to take her to the Westerlands.

Lady Cersei, she thought dreamily, with her beautiful golden hair and hypnotizing green eyes. She had not married, Rhaenys had told her, and many men around the known world were looking for her favor. Her brother had been part of the Kingsguard, but Rhaegar dismissed him once king Aerys had died, and now spent his days ruling Casterly Rock in lieu of his father’s execution.

  
But many letters were exchanged between her and the crown, and many assured it was lady Cersei asking to be Rhaegar’s wife. Both unmarried, her still in childbearing age. But Rhaegar refused to remarry, and many whispers were exchanged that they had angered the lions’ fury. The ruthless one is Cersei, she had heard once, with her lion claws and loud roar. 

  
“Daenerys.” Her mother entered the room, bringing a tray of tea with her. “Is everything alright now?”

  
“No. I am now jailed inside my room for the time being. I hate it here.”

  
“You must rest all you can.” She paused for a moment, sighing. “Don’t you want to see lady Sansa again?”

  
“Would I die if I did not rest? Why are you saying there is a possibility I could not?”

  
Her mother bit her lip, looking around uncomfortably. “No, you will not die. But if you refuse to rest… you will be confined until it heals and does not hurt anymore. And sometimes it takes a long time to heal.”

  
“Do you want me to stay in my room forever, then?” Daenerys lashed out, trying to stand up. Her back ached. “I will go to Aegon’s wedding, it’s not up for you to decide. It will look… terrible if Aemon is there and I am not.”

  
“I want you to rest, that’s it.” Her mother stood up. “There is tea, drink it and calm down. I will not tolerate your anger anymore: you’re a dragon, not a beast.” She walked out of the room, her heeled boots echoing throughout the halls. Rhaella had once read a letter she wrote for Sansa, out of the bottom of her heart, and questioned her for it. She had written a poem about her red hair, and compared her eyes to the oceans of Yi Ti.

Rhaella asked for her to rewrite it, but Daenerys did not understand why. She refused, and sent the letter anyway. Her mother did not complain further, but all the letters she had to send out in the future had to go through her first. There were no more poems about her hair, her voice, or anything at all, just anecdotes of her day. 

  
She wanted to sneak out her room and go to the pit, but the action was too risky for her. It was far, dark, and cold. She would get robbed, kidnapped, murdered or frozen, and not a single outcome she liked. She felt trapped, like a bird in a cage, and for once she desired the company of a sweet, cunning lady speaking tales of great knights, beautiful maidens and just kings. Rhaenys was too busy aiding Rhaegar in the council, and Arianne had not been feeling too well. She had received visits from Tyene, who had been allowed to stay in court to accompany her princess, but they were often quick, as she had other plans. And the boys… well, they were boys.

  
She stood and walked up to her balcony. The snow had started to fall in a quiet, enchanting manner. The activity in the city was starting to slow down, and she did not know what exactly hit her. She had never lived a winter before, and when the first sign of autumn came she was decidedly excited—but as the skies turned grey and the snow fell something inside her started to shrivel, and her thoughts turned gloom. It arrived and went in waves, and struck her in the most unexpected moments. I want to fly, she whispered, I want to touch those clouds.  
She slowly went up to grab some pieces of paper she had hidden under the bookshelf and a quill. Her hand started moving so gracefully, so tenderly, she surprised herself.

 _I claim to love Winterfell almost as much as you do, fair lady, but all this snow just gives me a headache._ Sansa would never read it, because Rhaella would not, either. _I earnestly miss spring, and my dragons just ask for a hint of summer._

  
She would not sleep that night; the ceiling would blush at how much she would stare at it, and Daenerys would cry and weep her inability to slumber.

  
“The chairs, your majesty.”

  
Two carved wood chairs, one with a dragon at the top, other with a wolf. Daenerys looked at them with curiosity as the servant showed them to Rhaegar, looking for his approbation.  
“These ones are what I asked for. Thank you.”

The king stood upstairs in the ballroom, overseeing the wedding’s preparations. His rigid stance warmed up as he saw Daenerys peeking from behind a pillar, and gestured for her to come forward. Daenerys shook her head.

  
“Mother still thinks I’m asleep in my room.”

  
“And mother is not here. Come and see.” The girl stared at the people below, rushing and running and planning. There were three immense tables laid out in the shape of a c, and at the middle top the carved chairs were being set up. “There will sit Sansa and Aegon in the feast, right in the middle, for everyone to see.” He turned up to her. “You don’t look too happy.”

  
Daenerys was frowning, a doubt overwhelming her mind. “It would be inappropriate of me to ask out loud.”

  
“Would it?” Rhaegar smiled. “Now you have got my attention. Ask.”

  
“The tradition.” Daenerys blushed, shooking her head. “The bedding… Sansa is too young, and… and Aegon is a clumsy idiot.”

  
Rhaegar leaned over, whispering, as if he wanted to keep his answer a secret. “No bedding until she turns sixteen. Before that, we must keep them close as to not disrupt their marriage.” He straightened his back and looked overhead. His voice returned to a normal tone. “Anyway, those aren’t things you should ask so directly, should you?”

  
Daenerys turned red as a beer and hid her face. “I just wanted to know! If I had asked Aegon directly he would have screamed all about it, mortified!”

  
“It’s fine. Those things you should know about. You’re going to marry, too. In your own time, of course.”

  
Daenerys did not completely like the idea of marrying, or it was perhaps that she did not like the idea of marrying Aemon. The Targaryens practiced marriages with their own family members since ancestral times, but it was not the incest itself that grossed her out—she did not like to be tied into an event who proudly proclaimed her a future childbearer and child raiser. What would happen to her dragons? They would feel alone if she would not dedicate her time to them; and most important, what would happen to her? She wanted to fight, to fly, to soar, to rule. She did not dislike court intrigue, but she much preferred if she could hold a position of power. Chancellor, Rhaegar had told her once, long before her eggs hatched, but he hadn’t mentioned it again. Perhaps if she trained harder, she would become master-at-arms, or if she flew a new position would be created just for her.

  
Her back ached, but not as much as it had done days before. The Starks were to arrive in a week, and her belly felt the flutter of butterflies; or more precisely, the flutter of hawks, of condors… butterflies undermined her true feelings, her excitement. She curtsied at Rhaegar and left, mentally planning her ideas for lady Sansa’s arrival. What could she do to make her transition to King’s Landing life better? It was winter, and the Starks liked winter, but other than that…

  
Lady Arianne appeared at a turn, looking tired but otherwise fine. Her hair was falling down her waist, her curls perfectly framing her face. Sometimes Daenerys liked to stare at her for a little too long for her liking, but she couldn’t help it. Arianne would take notice of that and smile, and Daenerys would profoundly blush. “Princess.” The dornish girl smiled ear to ear, her pearly white teeth shining. “What a fine day to see you again, how has your back been? Rhaenys told me about it.”

  
“I’m better now, thank you.” She felt small. “Are you alright? Do you still feel ill?”

  
Arianne laughed. “I am exhausted and I would love to take a nap, but I ought to lunch with my husband later. Everything is fine, however. It seems it just is winter fatigue.”

  
Winter fatigue, that’s true! She thought, trying to find meaning for her usual sadness and melancholy. On the coldest days she would feel heavy but restless all the same, and not even Drogon's warmth could make her feel cozy again. She did not hate winter, but she much preferred the winds of autumn or the smell of spring. “I am glad.” She responded, adverting her gaze. She liked how Arianne looked in winter clothing, even though she would not dare to say it out loud. “I have to go back to my chambers lest my mother see.”

  
“Of course.” Arianne gifted her a smile and went on her way. How graceful she was, with every movement a precious sight on the eyes of the beholder. Many times, Daenerys had been told that her Valyrian heritage was a blessed one, with her wonderful silver hair and violet eyes, but it was true that Arianne stole far more sighs, with her curly black hair, and her smooth olive skin, and long eyelashes, and slender figure, and… 

  
She was daydreaming again. Sometimes it made her feel bad thinking about Arianne like that, because no other woman at court did so. She felt so invasive, and when she was in front of her she just complimented her dress or accessories, then it wouldn’t be inappropriate.

  
A week, she though. A week until she saw lady Sansa again. She thought that after all those years without seeing her she would have forgotten how exciting her company was, and how splendid od a time she had with her. Maybe, in a long future, she would ride dragons with her, and maybe Sansa would let her pet her wolf. I will steal her from Aegon so much she will forget she’s married; a thought came by. She giggled to herself almost in an evil way, but she couldn’t help herself. They were ladies now, and could not play hide-and-seek, or bathe in mud, or play swords, but maybe… maybe she would find a way to have fun. No, she would definitely find a way. She smiled and thought of hopeful times.


	16. Sansa | The Bride

The waters during winter were rough and unkind, but the journey from White Harbor to King’s Landing managed without casualties. The trip that would taken a month and a little more than a half did so in just two weeks—albeit painful and sickly ones. Her lady mother was not accustomed to such long distances in boat, and such spent her evenings emptying her stomach. The servants had saved Arya from falling over to the sea twice within the same day, and Eddard had decided to enclose her with Catelyn for her own safety. Arya would have ended up hating the smell of puke and her mother’s sounds, and when they had arrived to land she almost kissed the ground. Robb spent his days studying, although he grew exhausted of it at candlelight and the motions of the waves; Bran had tripped on the icy boards and almost broken his nose on the boards, and Rickon cried for lady Catelyn’s arms every time they took him away from her so she could rest. Sansa felt like slipping into madness.

The things keeping her sane was the wolf’s pendant Aegon had gifted her in her first visit to King’s Landing, and a small poem Daenerys had written her. It spoke of a pink dress and Sansa’s hands. She had asked her to write more, but at a certain point they had stopped.

_Sweet dragon, I do not mean to hurt your pride, but am I not worthy of your poems anymore?_ She wrote once.

_Do not worry_ , Daenerys had written back, _it is just that my inspiration has gone away._

She didn’t know if she should’ve believed her words, but there was no reason for her to lie to Sansa, nor Sansa lie to her. She could go without poems and pretty words, but it left a cold inside her when they stopped. _Maybe she’s writing poems to others now_ , she thought, but that made her feel bad. She had liked being her muse and reading about all the colors of her ginger hair and the shine of her blue eyes, and as selfish as she felt, she wanted it all for herself.

As the boat landed on the harbor, the maids who helped her to get dressed arrives at her room to help her bathe. It was severely early in the morning, and the first rays of sun were yet to rise. “Sorry to wake you up, m'lady, but it is orders from your father to get you dressed and ready as soon as possible.”

“I was awake already, thank you.” She started undressing and hugged herself as she felt the cold touching her bare skin. “When are we to meet the royal family?”

“Mid-morning, m'lady. Here.” Another woman brought a tub with warm water, whose difference with the room’s temperature was causing for it to emanate vapor. She stepped into it and sighed when she felt the warmth, and fully let the water embrace her as she shivered from the cold. Another container was brought, this one much smaller, and a maid instructed for her to dip her head into it. She felt the hot water surround her scalp, her hair, and she couldn’t help but let out a smile.

A woman started to massage her face with lavender and rose water, while the other scrubbed her shoulders delicately with a wonderfully scented soap. Her scalp began to smell nice, too, as the woman working with her face washed it with the lavender water. She felt like a queen, truly.

As she finished her bath, she asked for the array of dresses to be brought to her; she picked a velvet one, blue like the sky, with embroidery she made herself. _I hope Daenerys notices the dragons I put in them._ Her hair was done into a crown braid, with lace intertwined into it. Her mother had suggested once for her to wear heeled boots, but she refused.

“I don’t want to look taller than Aegon. What if he’s intimidated?”

Her mother sighed. “It wouldn’t be much of a bad thing.”

She chose the normal ones, though. The rays started to come through the doors, the small windows, the cracks of the wood. The boat started to come alive, and she heard the harbor wake up, too. Bells, people shouting, women selling, children playing… King’s Landing was an incredibly lively city, and even in winter the people worked hard, and reminded her of Winterfell. She put her chin up and walked out of the door, seeing Arya as she sat talking to a fisherboy who had accompanied them in their trip. He was the one who had caught them an enormous marlin who they all happily ate for dinner, but after a week she grew exhausted of the smell and taste of fish.

“It’s too early still.” Arya said, noticing her sister. “What are you so ready for?”

“Breakfast.” Sansa smiled, catching the boy’s attention, but he still did not want to look at her eye. “I smell nice, too, can’t you smell?”

“It will go to waste once we have tuna for breakfast and your breath smells of fish once again. Though I did hear the maids say that they were to buy cow’s meat from the nearby marketplace.”

“Fish?” Sansa laughed, carefully sitting in a nearby barrel. “I will skip breakfast if they do not bring that cow. I’m sick of the sea for now.”

She wanted nothing but the taste of cooked eggs at morning, suckling piglet at lunch, and spiced duck at dinner. The journey was as salty at the sea itself, but she consoled herself saying that once she lived at the Red Keep, she would eat her favorite foods whenever she wanted. She would ask for lemon cakes every time she had tea, and on special days she would indulge in a bit of wine. _Not too much, I am not a drunkard._

After a few minutes they were called inside. Breakfast was ready, and Sansa’s mouth watered when she saw a beautiful arrangement of apricots, juice, eggs, and berries on the table. She mentally thanked the gods for their mercy and sat beside Robb, who was eating like it was his last day on earth. She could not blame him. Her mother was tense, though, speaking with her father. The cup of juice on her hand was almost empty, but the food was barely touched. She knew she didn’t want to give her to the Targaryens, but she dared not to complain just yet. _I gave you to the dragons for months and they returned you half-blind, what will they take if it’s a lifetime?_

“Sansa.” Catelyn positioned herself into her chair, grabbing a bite of an apple. “The king has sent a carriage for you, and other for the rest of us. You shall arrive after us and make your grand entrance, do you know how to pose yourself?”

“Yes.” She responded, quite anxiously. She hadn’t thought about a grand entrance, but she thought herself capable nonetheless. She nodded. “Can I bring Lady with me?”

“We…” Eddard sighed. “I’m not sure how will they react to Lady. She’s big and looks menacing to the untrained eye.”

“They have dragons.” Arya shrugged. “Three of them. Some say they are enormous beasts, with black fire and horns bigger than their head. They won’t faint upon seeing a wolf, I think.”

_That is true_ , Sansa thought uneasy, _I will live between dragons_. What if she accidentally hurt Aegon? Would the dragons eat her? And when she was crowned as queen… how would she respond if the dragons did damages to the smallfolk? They were not hers, but they would be _with_ her. She felt the weight of her marriage already heavy upon her shoulders, and for a moment she wished to take control of the boat and go back to Winterfell, perhaps marry some small, northern lord. But that was not the way of the wolf, and she would not run away. “Lady is kind and gentle,” Sansa responded. “She wags her tail at strangers and only growls when she is in extreme danger. She is trustful, and she will not hurt anyone. And she will defend me if they try to hurt me.”

Lady had gotten big over the years, bigger than any hunting dog. She was agile, with a sharp mind but modest appetite. Sometimes she would join her siblings at night, howling at the bright moon, and some nights she would sleep comfortably in Sansa’s bed, sighing at the warmth of the fireplace. She was the quietest one, too, and refused to bark along when a prey approached her and her siblings. _How will she fare here, at King’s Landing? Will she miss her siblings? Of course she will, because so will I._

The thought of leaving behind her family made her teary-eyed. No more horse races with Robb, no more singing sessions with Arya; she would miss playing hide-and-seek with little Bran, and telling not-so-baby Rickon stories to bed. Her mother would no longer brush and caress her hairs in the mornings, and her father would not be there to hug her when she was sad. She would not be on her own, but the pack would lose a wolf.

Breakfast ended and as she stepped out of the boat she saw the promised carriages: one in cyan, with white-painted details and white curtains; she saw the other one, a carriage so red it seemed almost painted with rubies, with gold-carved dragons at the doors, and golden curtains. She knew in which carriage to step into. _I am no longer a Stark maid, I am a Targaryen bride._

Her mother gave her the lasts instructions before she went into her transport, and as they closed the door of her carriage, she let out a big sigh. She was nervous; not once in her life she had been paraded like she was going to, with millions watching her, judging her, staring at her… when she was little she dreamed of being a beautiful princess, with her people clapping at her and throwing petals, chanting her name and blessing her family, but she barely knew the Kingslanders, and they barely knew her.

She took a small handheld mirror from a small pouch she carried with her and looked at herself. Her eye didn’t look bad—the scar was permanent, indeed, but her actual eye did not look that bad. It was lighter than the other one, and unless someone stared at it too close they would not see the damage in it. But Aegon was to stare at her eyes for many hours and many times, and maybe… maybe he would not like it. Maybe the ladies at court would call her ugly, or deformed. Maybe they would laugh at her, or, or… she felt out of breath and felt like crying, so she stick out her head out of the window and called for Lady.

“Please!” She begged, her lips shaking. “Please bring Lady with me! I want her to ride with me.” The carriage was yet to start walking, and from the other one came out her father.

“My heart, what is wrong?”

“I want Lady with me. I do not want her to travel in those dark, cold boxes you prepared for her and the others. Please, she needs me.” _I need her._

Eddard gestured from a man to bring the wolf, and within a few minutes Lady was back at her side. Sansa embraced her and stroked her fur, finding her company comforting. Lady wagged her tail upon seeing her for the first time in the day, and she smiled. “Thank you.” She whispered to her father and let Lady in, closing the window. The wolf gently rested her head on her lap and closed her eyes as Sansa petted her head with such love and kindness. A man shouted way in the front an instruction, and the carriages started moving. She set the curtain aside to look outside, marveling at the houses and markets, and the people staring at the entourage. From away she could hear cheers and clapping, and she felt the butterflies in her stomach flutter.

“Long live the wolves!” She could hear. “May the gods bless their arrival! May the gods bless our bride!”

_They are cheering me_ , she whispered to Lady, hoping she would understand, _I am their bride_! Before she knew it, a smile drew on her face. She stroke Lady’s head to calm her, and as the carriage approached the multitude she took a big breath and opened her window.

The cheers rose in volume, and upon seeing the people smiling for her she smiled back. She waved her hand as her mother had taught her, and politely took the roses the women were handing her. She stuck her head out of the window to look at her new subjects better, but soon felt dizzy and overwhelmed. _They do not care about my scar, they care about me._ As they approached the Red Keep, the inside of her carriage was full of roses, of petals, of rice and other leaves. It smelled wonderful, and she felt immensely loved; she was determined to love them back.

The carriage her family was riding on entered the castle, while she was way behind them. She straightened her back and looked at Lady, who seemed already exhausted with all the commotion. Sansa sighed. “You will be at my side when I step out, and will kindly greet the Targaryen family. Do not fear the dragons, and they will not fear you.” She passed through the Red Keep gates and held onto her skirt, tense. She heard her family get out of their carriage, and then kneeling for the Targaryens. _You are the prince’s bride, do a grand entrance._

Two men approached the carriage and rolled out a red carpet in front of it. She saw it went all the way to the castle’s gate, and giggled to herself when she imagined tripping. Daenerys would laugh with her, and then it’d be fine. She grabbed a leash and put it around Lady’s neck as her door opened, and taking a big breath she stepped out, attracting whispers from the crowd around. She looked ahead and saw her family still kneeling to the royal family, but she was in no rush. She walked gracefully to her family and new family, with her chin up and Lady at her side. With her walking beside her she was not afraid; she was safe, she felt strong, she felt powerful. _I am a wolf too; shall not the people here forget._

Rhaegar looked older than she remembered; there were wrinkles on his forehead, crow’s feet on his eyes, and his silver beard had turned whiter than she recalled. Rhaella stood straight, with her hair done in beautiful braids who culminated in a ponytail, and with Rhaegar at her side they looked almost like twins. She saw Viserys, proud of Arianne standing beside him; Aemon looked out for Robb, and Rhaenys seemed impassible. Aegon stood between his father and grandmother, and Sansa immediately noticed his nervousness. He was much taller; with a slender body and determined eyes. He looked like the prince Sansa had dreamed of many years ago, when she dreamed of princesses brushing their hair at tall castles, and knights saving them. But what she was really looking for did not immediately catch her eye, but when she did…

Daenerys had the brightest smile Sansa had ever seen, with her cheeks flushed and hair gracefully falling on her shoulders, her chest, her waist. Daenerys’s lilac eyes gleamed of excitement, of wonder, of curiosity… and she was staring straight at Sansa, not bothered by anyone else; and Sansa was staring at her too. The Targaryen princess was smaller than her but as skinny and much more radiating… she looked as warm as fire itself, and she wanted to approach her as soon as she could.

She felt Lady sit beside her, and Sansa knew she had to kneel, breaking out of her daydream. She kneeled in front of the royal family as Aegon approached her.

“Rise.” The boy said, delicately grabbing her free hand. She rose up and he kissed her hand so tenderly she almost blushed. Almost. “My sweet lady, you are as beautiful as the day I first met you.” He stared anxiously at her wolf.

“My prince.” She smiled. “You are so gentle and kind as I remembered.”

Her eyes seemed to drift on their own to Daenerys, but she fought that desire back. _I am Aegon’s bride, not hers, I am Aegon’s bride, not hers…_

“My lords.” Rhaegar spoke, his deep voice echoing through everyone. “Years back we met here, at this same exact spot, to promise our peace pact to ensure the stability and wellbeing of the Seven Kingdoms. In a few days, this pact will be signed and it will mark an era of prosperity in the realm. May the wolves make peace with the dragons, now and always.”

“Now and always.” Responded the crowd back. She let out a sigh as she relaxed, and looked at Aegon.

“This is my wolf, Lady. You can pet her, your grace, she will not hurt you.” She saw Daenerys out of the corner of her eye bit her lip. _She wants to pet her, too._

“I…” Aegon hesitated for a moment but obliged all the same. His hands carefully stroked Lady’s fur so tenderly, but as the wolf responded he stopped, tense. “She… is a beautiful dog, no doubt.”

_He is afraid._ “Thank you, my prince. I hope you take care of her as you will take care of me.”

A screech came from the roof, and then another. The crowds started to whisper in uneasiness, and after a moment of silence a dragon made its appearance. Lady started to squirm in her place, and Sansa tried to calm her, but she was uneasy, too. A black beast the size of a stallion flew over them, showing off his wingspan, breathing fire out of his black mouth. A green one came behind it, flying and dancing around a white one. A melody of their roars surrounded the guests; her family stared in wonder, but Arya was the only one who was not afraid. A slight smile painted on her little sister’s face as the dragons landed a few meters from them, screeching a last time before they looked around at their visitors. _They are proud beasts_ , she recalled Maester Luwin words, _and they like to show off._ The snow melted around them as vapor came from their bodies, and they looked the kings of King’s Landing themselves.

“Daenerys!” Sansa heard Aemon whisper to her aunt. “What have you done?”

“I just let them out for fresh air…” She whispered back. “They won’t hurt anyone, I made them promise me!”

“They’re dragons!”

“And they understand better than you do!”

Sansa hid a giggle, biting her lip. The three beasts stood proudly in front, sitting and staring at Daenerys. They almost seemed to look for her approval. _How lovely_ , she thought, but she couldn’t feel calm with Lady anxious at her side. She felt a hand grab her shoulder with force, but instantly recognized her mother’s vanilla scent. She relaxed.

“Your majesty, shall we go inside?” Catelyn’s voice was tense, stressed. “We are tired from the travels, and we would like to find the warmth of your walls as soon as possible, if your grace would like.”

“Of course.” Rhaella answered. “I will see for the guards to take your packages inside. The smallfolk thank you for your food contribution, even though you can’t spare much for winter.”

Her family found their way to the castle, but Sansa brushed off her mother’s hand. “Wait.” She said and walked up to her princess.

Daenerys stared wide eyed at her, but a smile came through nonetheless. Sansa smiled back as she stared down at her, and for the first time she felt shy. Not with Aegon, not with Rhaegar, and not with the dragons… but with Daenerys. She opened her mouth to speak, but the princess spoke first. “Lady Sansa, you look lovely… I have waited for your return forever. And you, indeed, are taller. Much taller.”

Sansa giggled. “You are prettier than the last time we saw each other, and your hair is longer, and your eyes…” She shook her head. “I longed to see you again, and now we will live together, and there will be no need to miss each other.”

“That is true.” Daenerys responded, staring straight at her. Sansa blushed and adverted her gaze, looking at Lady.

“This is Lady, my sweet wolf. She is a little anxious around your dragons, but… she likes to be petted. Do you want to?”

“Yes.” The princess squatted to Lady’s level and carefully stroked her head. Daenerys did not flinch, and instead smiled at the wolf’s enjoyment. They seemed like old friends, almost. “You’re very pretty and polite, Lady. Nice to meet you.”

Rhaella called out for the girls, interrupting their meeting. “Girls, let us talk inside, for the winds are getting colder.”

Daenerys stood up and gestured for Sansa to follow her. She held on Lady’s leash tightly and proudly walked inside the Red Keep, staring at Daenerys in front of her. _Such pretty hair_ , she thought, _I would love to brush it…_


	17. Daenerys | Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College started back again and has no mercy upon me. As dramatic as it sounds, I'm already exhausted lol. Chapters are going to come more scarcely, which sucks because I have so many plans for the oncoming chapters and I'd love to put them into paper as soon as possible before they fade. Sorry for being incredibly late, and I hope you understand. Thank you so much for your support!!! You all have been so kind to me, and it truly inspires me to keep going. :) Stay safe.

“This is not debatable: if you dare to do so again, I will chain them to their enclosures and lock you inside your chambers.”

Rhaella was merciless and direct whenever she wanted or needed to, but Daenerys missed the days of her carefree childhood, where she was gentle and kind when scolding her. A life inside her chambers seemed dangerous and boring enough, but she was decided as to not strictly follow her mother’s instructions. What did she know about dragons, anyway? Sometimes she awed at their beauty, their wings flapping in the wind; and other days, she would protect Daenerys against an unknown danger they supposedly possessed. _She liked dragons once,_ she had reflected, _before they were an actual possibility._

She was escorted by Barristan to the dragonpit, where she led her beasts back to their enclosures. She had been dragged away from Sansa’s chatter to be humiliated in front of her, being talked down as if she was some babe. Drogon resisted going back to his, and instead lashed out to her. Barristan took out his sword.

“No.” She commanded, shielding the dragon. “It is alright, he won’t hurt me.”

But she feared for the three of them; they were growing impatient, and so did she. They would be stuck at that size for the years to come, and if an angry mob crashed into the pits, they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves much. Her eyes teared up at the thought of her dragons murdered, of people eating their flesh… winter had no sign of getting warmer anytime soon, and the crops were running out. Hopefully the Starks had brought enough supplies for the oncoming years, but still…

Viserion landed at her feet, looking at her with pleading, glossy eyes. That one had been the most kind and gentle of the three, always cuddling up to her, demanding sweet attention. It was the one that did not mind waiting for his brothers to finish eating their food so he would catch some scraps, and above all, he loved soaring the most. On his own, dancing with Rhaegal, and even that was taken away from him. _No_ , she thought, _don’t think about this right now._

“Please.” She spoke to Drogon, hugging herself. “I will be back tomorrow to feed all of you. Aemon will come with me, and maybe I will bring new faces.”

That was right, and a smile drew itself on her face. She would like the Starks to meet them, and Sansa the most. She had dreamed many nights of her soaring the skies, warm winds caressing her face, Sansa held tight to her waist, flying with her. They would travel to Winterfell so she could meet with her family, and then fly to unknown lands, to meet unknown faces. But she wouldn’t dare to tell her that, at least not to her face.

“Princess.” Barristan reminded her. “Your mother awaits you. If it pleases you I can bring the servants to aid you.”

“I’m almost done.” She lied. She hated when Drogon became fussy and threw his stupid tantrums, and nothing but his own will threw him out of that mindset. She tried pushing him, but he was decidedly heavier than her, and even more muscular. She wanted to scream. “Stop that! Get in or I…”

The dragon screeched for a last time and spit fire to her side. Her dress immediately caught fire, and as she panicked, she fell to the floor. The pit’s bottom was covered in both ashes and snow, and soon her entire body was stained. Barristan rushed to her side and put out the fire on her garments, dragging her away from Drogon. Daenerys clung tightly to his arm, her eyes watery, her heart betrayed. “Princess, we need to leave. I’ll ask for the servants outside to close the entrance so they won’t get out.”

They both ran outside, away from Drogon’s wrath. She felt like crying. No, he wouldn’t dare to kill her—it had been proved many times throughout the year. But they were restless, and wanted freedom, and dragons are no slaves. Not even to the Valyrians, not even to her.

The galloping to the castle was a silent one, with Barristan breaking it occasionally to ask if she was okay. She would nod her head but not a sound would come from her, and if her mother asked for an explanation she would create one. I fell to the floor, mama, that’s it… and as the Red Keep grew bigger in the distance and she came back to reality, she felt like lashing out, too. But not in front of the guests, and definitely not in front of…

She walked inside, her pride hurt but her chin up. The skirt of her dress was ruined and she smelled of fire; her silver hair was stained with gray, and her eyes were puffy by the ash she had been exposed to. She would run directly to her chambers, immediately bathe and change clothes _. I will not give in._ Then nothing would happen, and the dragons would stay safe. _I will not give in_. Away from chains, away from the wrath of her brother and her mother. _I will not give in._

Her room was silent except for the sounds of the birds at her window. Barristan discreetly called for her servants, who quickly arrived with a tub full of warm water, various deliciously scented oils and a purple velvet dress. Maybe then nobody would ask, and interpret her change only to appear more regal, more powerful. But Viserys liked to ask many questions, and Aemon couldn’t hold a secret around Rhaella, that nervous fool. She undressed and stepped into the comforting water, closing her eyes for a second and breathing in the smell of jasmine, drowning on its calming effects. Sometimes she wished she could stay forever in the water, but it turned cold if she didn’t hurry up, and the smell vanished after a few minutes. How come nothing went out the way she wanted it? She felt so powerless, so frustrated, even the bath was becoming a point of reflection for her. She had to stop—she would eat lunch happily, and talk with the Starks as if they were lifelong friends, and smile when her mother asked to, and hopefully everything would go alright.

That day was special, but not too much as to not shadow the magnificence of Aegon and Sansa’s wedding. Lunch was served, and the entire castle could smell it: sausages, turkey, many types of cake… her stomach growled, and her mouth watered. She felt like diving into the many sweets and drown into the beautiful-scented wines. Debauchery, gluttony… what an image that would be for a princess, wouldn’t it?

She sat beside Rhaenys, whose gaze was set on the wolf at the corner of the room, politely eating on a big piece of meat. “Are you afraid?” Daenerys whispered to her. Rhaenys shook her head.

“No, it is merely a strange gaze. Perhaps you should ask grandmother to let Drogon inside the ballroom.” She answered sardonically taking a bite of a near strawberry. Daenerys frowned.

“No need to be hostile. Manners, _niece._ ”

Rhaenys hated when she referred her as niece, as if she was some sort of child. She rolled her eyes. “I am not hostile. This is so new, so strange. Something to get used to.”

“Girls.” Rhaella’s voice interrupted them both, drawing attention to them. Daenerys blushed and adverted her gaze. I will not give in, she will not ask. “What are you two whispering, if one may ask?”

“Daenerys is asking me if I, please, could sneak her some ale.” Rhaenys smiled maliciously. _That’s not true!_ “Is this permitted, grandmother?”

Rhaella rolled her eyes, catching her intentions early. “Let her have some wine. We’re with the company of guests, if you are so kind.”

Daenerys adjusted herself in her seat, looking around the room. The Stark children were chatting warmly as if they were back home, and Daenerys wondered about them. All with red hair, except Arya, and she asked herself if the Tully seed was stronger than the Stark one. She had been told her entire life that the Targaryens and Velaryons were unique in their looks, and so they shall preserve them. _If I were to have a child with a Stark, would they come out red? Or silver?_

A servant came forward and served her a cup of dornish wine. She gracefully thanked him and took a sip, making a face after overwhelming herself with the flavor. She heard the laughs alongside her, and saw Aemon almost choking on a piece of pork because of his laughter. She frowned. “You wouldn’t be laughing if you choked.”

“Your face alone would make me die happy.” He composed himself and kept eating.

A few seats over, Aegon held his betrothed's hand. With such a handsome smile and effortless charisma, the prince could make any lady faint. To no surprise, even, since the oldest ladies sighed and smiled for him, too. And Sansa smiled back, earnestly listening to his stories, to his achievements, his swordmanship, his favorite foods, his preferred songs, his favorite drinks… Rhaenys kicked his foot under the table, warning him that he was talking a little too much about himself. Daenerys smiled to herself, taking a bite from an olive near. He tried, indeed, but he tried too hard sometimes.

But she felt tense as she laid her eyes on the mother wolf, as Rhaenys named her. Catelyn Tully, Stark by marriage, seated nearby barely touching her food, looking over occasionally to her daughter and her fiance. She wanted to ask a million questions to her, and then some more. Perhaps assure her that her daughter was in good hands—even if she distrusted them as Sansa’s eye came undone years before. Catelyn was beautiful, and graceful, and slender and as gorgeous as a fairytale can tell, but her eyes were those who kill, who command. And she felt a great sense of respect to her. _I will ask_ , she thought herself, _I want to know her._

As lunch ended and the guests set aside their plates to talk with one another, Daenerys stood up and grabbed Rhaenys's hand, guiding her. “What are you doing?” Asked her niece, surprised.

“Presenting you.” She answered.

Before the two girls now stood Catelyn and Sansa, who looked almost identical one beside the other. _Like two princesses from magical lands…_

“My ladies.” Daenerys raised her chin, trying not to sound nervous. She held Rhaenys’s hand tighter, hoping she wouldn’t notice the sweat starting to form. “I’m afraid we didn’t get time for many formalities back at the courtyard, and I would like to present to you two me, and my niece.”

“…yes, indeed.” Rhaenys answered, suddenly stiff. _I’m never going to hear the end of this after we’re done._ “Pleasure to meet you, ladies of Stark. I’m Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar, daughter of late Elia, and I can’t wait to be one of our future queen confidants.”

Catelyn smiled, pleased, while Sansa bit her lip in excitement. So many things to say, but I’m not comfortable around this many people. “Thank you, princess Rhaenys. I have heard tales of your cleverness and intelligence, and hopefully you will aid my daughter in courtly matters.”

“I would be immensely blessed in doing so.” She answered, regaining her composure. How she envied Rhaenys and the way she dominated everything a princess did. Had she accepted to marry, she would make an incredible ruler, a gracious queen, a powerful commander. Later, she had said once, I have many plans I can’t do being a wife.

“Princess Rhaenys is a kind one, mother. She has many friends in and out the castle, and she will protect me and keep me company.”

 _Me too! I have friends and I can keep company too!_ Daenerys would have loved to exclaim, but she bit her lip and brushed the jealousy away. It was not her place to talk, and would look horrid at the eyes of everyone. “Is it true?” Catelyn answered, a mysterious smile on her face. “Well, I am glad you will be in trustworthy hands, then.” The woman looked at Daenerys, her eyes as unreadable as they could be. Daenerys knew lady Catelyn distrusted her family—as many northern men still did—, but she was determined to earn her respect and trust, and show her that, perhaps, her family wasn’t too bad. _I am not my father_ , she thought, _and all my family are not all Aerys. Not even Viserys at his worst._

She curtsied. “My lady of Stark, I am Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa’s friend and princess to the crown. Many years ago your daughter and I met, and many years ago we became friends. It is nothing but my heart’s wishes to make her happy, and make her feel home at the Red Keep for the rest of our days.”

“I have seen, indeed.” Catelyn set aside a cup of wine she had been holding and smiled. “Your letters are full of excitement, and joy, and warmth.”

Daenerys blushed. “You’ve read them?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sansa advert her gaze, her face red as the strawberries beside her. “I have.” Catelyn answered, gazing directly into the princess’ soul. “Sansa showed me some, mostly your poems. You have a beautiful soul, your grace. It shows on your hand.”

She felt at a loss of words, but managed to thank her anyway. Eddard called out to Catelyn, and the woman stood up, leaving them alone. She felt the subtle kick of Rhaenys’s elbow on her arm, and she rolled her eyes. “Lady Catelyn likes you. No need to be angry.”

“This could have been a disastrous encounter, aunt.” Rhaenys tidied up her dress. “I did need to prepare, but I’m glad it went well.”

Sansa walked up to them, playing with her hands and her eyes on the floor. Daenerys remembered the shy and repressed child she had met many years ago for a moment at the sight of her, and wondered how she would behave now. “I hope I can make a great queen.” She said, smiling. “Thank you for being kind and trying to earn my mother’s trust, she’s very scared. And honestly… I am too.”

“There’s no need to.” Daenerys reassured her, smiling brightly. “We will take care of you. Some people at court may not like you at all, but they can be taken care of.” She saw the perplexed and horrified gaze of Rhaenys beside her and Sansa’s vanishing smile, and suddenly she felt out of place. _Did I say something wrong?_

Rhaenys shook her head. “They’re… a minority.” She laughed, still angrily looking at Daenerys. “Some are friends of mine, of smaller houses. You see, some people are still not used to the idea of a Stark marrying a Targaryen, or getting along with them. But it is a fact, and they will have to get used to it.”

Sansa’s smile was a sad one, and Daenerys regretted having spoken. _I shouldn’t have said that, now she will be even more scared._ “It is alright.” Sansa spoke, biting her lip. “I can’t please everyone as much as my heart wants to, but hopefully they will get to know me in a better light.”

Rhaenys curtsied and left to Aegon, who was starting to get giggly on wine. Daenerys rolled her eyes once again, and returned to Sansa. “Don’t worry. You have the support of the big ones here, if you know what I mean.” She gave her a knowing smile. “Princess Arianne has been dying to meet you. She often helped me proofread my poems and add small details. Lady Tyene has a way with paintings, and she has offered to do your portrait if you wish. She has done mine, and maybe if we get her in a good mood, she will paint us together.”

Sansa laughed. “I do want a portrait of me. Is the princess not here?”

“No. She has been sick the past few weeks. Nausea, aches, fatigue. Except for the nausea, I’ve had them too. It’s the winter. Do you suffer from them, too?”

“Is she pregnant?” Sansa asked, whispering. Her eyes sparked with curiosity and excitement, and Daenerys did not what to respond. It would make sense, she told herself, but the Maester hasn’t said anything…

“I don’t know.” Daenerys shook her head. “That would make the Red Keep very happy if it happened, though. Let’s pray for a child, then.”

Sansa leaned closer, looking around, as if to tell a secret. “Remember when we first met, your grace? The night at the feast, when my dress was stained?”

Daenerys laughed. “Not something I could ever forget.”

“We went to a small lake hidden in the Red Keep, didn’t we? I’ve been thinking about that lake since I went back home, and how much fun we had. Are those springs? If they’re warm we could sneak and play, and then we will come back and act like nothing happened.”

The princess smiled cheek to cheek, enamored with her bravery and newly found rebellious nature. She felt a gaze burning her head, and looking behind Sansa she found Rhaella looking directly at her, with stern eyes and cautious expression. Daenerys’s smile vanished, and suddenly she felt cold. “I apologize, my sweet lady. The lake is not appropriate for this time of the year… we could catch a severe cold, and we can’t have that happen before your wedding.”

Sansa’s spark diminished. Nodding her head, she sat back at her seat and straightened her back. She was, once again, in lady mode. “I understand. It was foolish of me to ask, wasn’t I?”

“No, it was not. It’s just…” She adverted her gaze from Rhaella, who was starting to scare her. _I will not give in_. She leaned onto Sansa, trying to conceal a whisper. “I will show you something better than that. I will meet you in your chambers after the sun sets and the castle goes silent. Wait for me.”

She walked away, hiding a knowing smile. She briefly looked back at Sansa, who was staring at her wide-eyed and wondering. _Something better, indeed. How would you like to pet a dragon, my sweet queen?_


End file.
